<![CDATA[How Queer - Fiction]]>Wed, 25 Mar 2026 10:53:07 -0500Weebly<![CDATA[My Wife Locked Me in the Basement]]>Thu, 16 Jun 2022 21:19:27 GMThttps://www.how-queer.com/fiction/my-wife-locked-me-in-the-basementMy wife loves me. I remind myself of this as I stare at the steel door at the top of the stairs. I don’t try to open it. I know that it is locked. I can't remember how I know that.

I can’t remember a lot of things.

Or that's not right. I do sometimes. Time is just slippery, present devouring the past in an endless ouroboros. The memories slither to the surface before they wriggle away again, too fast for me to grasp.

I can feel them wriggling. I feel them in my ears, behind my eyes. In the throbbing in my temples.
A handful of memories, slimy and squirming and just out of reach: Once upon a time - last week, or now, or yesterday, or last year - I woke up on a soft twin mattress on the concrete floor, behind the metal shelves holding old cans of paint and forgotten household projects. The bed was warm, piled high with soft, gray blankets, but I was cold. I’ve been in this basement a hundred times, but this time it felt wrong, strange, like I wasn’t supposed to be here-

That’s it. I’m not supposed to be here. Oh Christ, how am I here? My love, what did you do? How am I here, now, this is wrong wrong wrong wrong writhing pounding squirming

I lost my train of thought. Where was I?

Right - here. The basement.

I woke up, and I was scared, alone. Cold. At some point I called for my wife, but she didn't answer. My legs felt like jelly when I tried to climb the stairs. I had to give up and crawl. I banged on the door until the skin of my palms split, leaving wide chasms of flesh, blue-gray and fish-belly pale. My hands did not bleed. Pink liquid oozed down my arms, sharp-smelling, astringent.

My wife looked sad as she stitched the skin back together. You must take better care of yourself, darling, she said. That was…yesterday. Or last year. Maybe five minutes ago. I don't know, but I know that I miss her. 

Thinking about her makes me sad, and a little frightened, but I can’t remember why. I can’t remember a lot of things.

She must have been here recently; the stitches are still there, tidy, neat lines holding the flesh together. The wound isn't healing. She told me that's normal for someone in my condition. She kissed the wounds gently, tears in her eyes. 

"You promised me forever, Leah," she whispered, rosy lips pink and lively and warm brushing over torn skin, pressed tenderly to the shiny black thread weaving in and out of stark white flesh. "We promised each other. You can't break that vow. I won't let you."

"I would never," I said. Or tried to. My jaw was locked up tight, almost like it was wired shut. My tongue was a dry, useless husk in my mouth. 

"You did, though." Tears spilled down her cheeks. She smoothed a hand over my thin, brittle hair. A few wisps caught in her wedding band. "But it's ok. I brought you back. I'll keep you safe."

"Safe is good," I mumbled. I leaned into her touch. Her body was warm. She smiled at me, but her eyes were sad. 

I didn’t mean to make her sad. I think I might be sick, but I don't feel ill. I don't really feel anything. Just the writhing, in my head. The slithering.

My wife left me this phone to call her if I need her. The screen is crushed in one corner, thick glass nearly shattered, cracks spider-webbing in thin slivers across the surface. There's a faint, brown-red stain on the case. I think it's my phone, but my wife’s number is the only one saved in the contacts. Sometimes I press the button and it rings, rings, rings. Have I called her yet today?

I don’t know the passwords for any of the apps. This one is logged in. I remember I liked coming on here, reading stories. I can't remember if I ever told any of my own.

I can't remember a lot of things. 

When I try, the writhing intensifies, entire brain squirming in my skull, gray matter thrashing against bone. 

It doesn’t hurt, at least. Nothing hurts. I think that’s a good thing. I remember pain in that elusive before. There was so much hurt, and there was shattered glass and the thick, sickly sweet scent of gasoline. It might have been a dream. It feels distant, a blurry watercolor of fear and pain. A nightmare.

It's already wriggling away.

I know I wasn't always in this basement. I remember a garden draped in fairy lights and my wife in a white dress, smiling at me. I remember her smiling at me across the kitchen counter, laughing when I accidentally dropped a whole egg into the frying pan, white shell stark in the runny yellow yolk. White like her wedding dress. White like the weather-worn boards of our front porch.

White like a silk coffin-liner. White like high-beams barrelling down the road, coming at you fast.
 
White like maggots squirming in flesh. 

White like my wife’s teeth when she smiles at me.

She smiles at me a lot. She loves me. 

Her smiles are always sad now. I can’t remember why she’s so sad. 

Maybe it's because of the dog. There is - no, there was - a dog in the road. I like dogs. I pulled the steering wheel to the right.

And then. And then...and then and then and then

STOP. It's wriggling again. I want it to stop. I SHOULDN’T BE HERE.

It's so quiet in the basement. How long have I been down here? Why is the door locked?

My fingernails are black. I don't remember painting them. I tried to chip off the polish and the whole nail slid off, thick and cracked down the middle. The skin underneath is a bluish, mottled gray. There is no blood. Just that pink, sharp liquid, cool to the touch. 

Blood is red, not pink. It's warm and thick. It gets in your eyes and your head hurts and the lights are too bright and it drips and flows and slithers and writhes and 

It doesn't hurt now - not my palms, not my fingernail, not my head. Nothing hurts. I think that's a good thing. 

It doesn't feel good.

My brain is squirming again. I think I should lie down until my wife gets back. She should be back soon. She promised. She can explain everything. Maybe she can make the slithering stop.

She's keeping me safe. That must be why the door is locked, why I can’t leave. I should keep her safe too. When she comes back, I'll make sure she stays with me. Here.

I can't remember a lot of things, but I do remember this: My wife loves me, and I love her. We promised each other forever, and we don't break our promises.
]]><![CDATA[Have you heard of the Moongazer? (Part 2)]]>Wed, 11 Aug 2021 16:55:18 GMThttps://www.how-queer.com/fiction/have-you-heard-of-the-moongazer-part-2I''ve  finally emerged from my chrysalis to  bring you another story!  This one is a collab with two other authors on r/NoSleep, so part 1 is linked at the beginning. Part 2 is below or on Reddit!
Part 1
I shouldn’t have turned around after Naomi told us to run. I thought she was just messing with us, the same way I had been messing with Emelia. Moongazer wasn’t real - the figure on the path had to be some kind of prop, right? A gimmick to mess with dumb tourists like us.

I stumbled mid-turn and nearly fell to my knees, my swollen, twisted ankle throbbing beneath my weight. I froze where I stood; the figure’s blank face had turned toward me, and even without eyes, I could feel the weight of his cold, empty stare. Moongazer extended one of his long, pale legs and stepped forward, halving the distance between us in one stride.

Not real. My mind screamed at me. It can’t be real!

​A hand on my shoulder yanked me back to reality. Emelia forcibly turned my body around and began pushing me down the path. I lost sight of Naomi, who had bolted into the trees when the creature started moving.

“Gwen, c’mon, run!”

Emelia shoved me forward, and I forced myself to put weight on my injured ankle. The joint screamed in agony with every footfall, but adrenaline and terror helped me push it to the back of my mind. There was a small maintenance shed near the end of the path, where the resort property met the beach, that we could hide in if we could break into it. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I forced myself to go faster. I could hear Moongazer’s heavy steps thundering on the path behind us. 

“Hurry, Em, up ahead!”

“I see it!”

The ground vibrated beneath our feet as Moongazer got closer, and I heard Emelia cry out in alarm. Even with my busted ankle, I somehow reached the shed first. There was a rusted chain looped around the handles, but I could pull the weathered doors open just enough to squeeze inside. I turned around to help Emelia through the gap only to realize she was no longer right behind me. 

I spotted her on the ground several yards back, crawling on her belly, blood pouring out of her mouth. Moongazer loomed behind her, tall, pale limbs glowing in the moonlight, head cocked to one side as though examining his handiwork. He lifted one giant foot into the air above Emelia’s back, and I clamped my hands over my mouth to hold in a scream as he brought it down with a sickening crack. 

I tightened my hands over my mouth to muffle a whimper. Emelia had gone still, only the slightest rise and fall of her back letting me know that she was still breathing, shallow and weak.

Tears streamed down my face as I stared at the limp body of one of my best friends. Movement from Moongazer drew my attention, and for one heart-stopping moment I thought he was looking right at me. Before I could scramble further into the darkness of the shed and whatever artificial sense of security it offered, Moongazer’s head snapped to the left. He turned his back to me - and the path - to stare intently into the trees surrounding the resort. Slowly, he began to move away toward the treeline.

I considered my options. I could stay in the shed and wait it out until morning, but I was certain Moongazer knew I was in there, and he wouldn’t even break a sweat destroying the plywood shack to get to me. I could try to make a run for Emelia and drag her to safety, but she wasn’t moving, and with my bad ankle I didn’t think I could support us both and move quickly enough to escape if Moongazer decided to turn around.

That left option C - make a run for it.

I’m sorry, Em, I thought, heart lurching in my chest as I decided to leave my friend behind. I gripped the rusted chain to keep it from rattling, took a deep breath to steel my nerves and, with one last glance to make sure Moongazer was still moving away from me, shoved my way back out of the shed. Sharp pain sliced into my side as I squeezed back through the worn, wooden doors, a loose nail or splinter ripping through fabric and skin, but I didn’t let it stop me. I ran past Moongazer’s retreating form, past Emelia’s battered body, and booked it back toward the resort. I sent up a silent prayer that whatever had drawn Moongazer’s attention, it wasn’t Naomi, and that she had found a place to hide. I sent up another that Moongazer hadn’t heard me escape and decided to follow me instead. 

I slammed into the plexiglass doors to the hotel lobby, but they didn’t budge. I lost my balance, failing to bite back a scream as I rolled my twisted ankle. I grabbed the handles and shook violently, but the doors were firmly locked. I slumped against the cool surface and sobbed.

“Help! I need help, please!” I cried out, slamming my open palms into the glass, rattling the doors in their frame. There was no response. I checked behind me to see if Moongazer had been drawn by my screams, but the path was empty. I risked trying one more time. 

“Is anybody there? Please, I’m hurt, and there’s something chasing me!”

Still no response. The lobby was deserted, and nobody came out of their rooms to see what the commotion was all about. An eerie silence had settled over the property. 

Where is everybody?

I caught a flash of movement in the corner of my eye, back down the path toward the maintenance shed. I didn’t wait to see who - or what - it was. I pushed myself back to my feet and hobbled quickly in the opposite direction of where I’d last seen Moongazer heading. There was another hotel entrance around back, and I figured I could make it if I stuck close to the building.

As I turned the corner, I walked right into another figure coming from the other side. They pushed me against the side of the building and clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle my startled cry.

“Gwen!” Naomi exclaimed. She dropped her hand and pulled me into a tight hug. “Oh, thank god you’re okay!”

Trembling, I brought my arms up to hug her back. “Emelia is…” I choked on the words. “He got her, Naomi. She’s gone.”

Naomi pulled back, hands clasping my upper arms. “No,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes. “Are you sure? We have to go back for her!”

A vivid image flashed in my mind - Emelia, body broken and limp, the quick, shallow rise - inhale - and fall - exhale - of her back. I pushed down the shame crawling up the back of my throat.

“It’s no use, Naomi. She’s dead,” I insisted. 

Naomi let out a shuddering breath. “Oh god, poor Em. Okay.” She grabbed my hand and started to pull me toward the front of the building. “We have to get help.”

I dug my heels in and pulled Naomi back toward me. “The lobby is locked, and I saw something moving on the path, we can’t go back that way.”

“The lobby is locked?” Naomi’s voice wavered, thin with panic. “The back entrance is too. What the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know, but we have to keep moving.” My mind reeled at the revelation that the back entrance was locked as well, goosebumps rising on the back of my neck. Something was very wrong. 

“Where do we go? How do we get away from this thing?” Naomi was growing frantic. I pulled her away from the hotel toward the trees. We were on the opposite side of the building to where I last saw Moongazer. I prayed we had a good enough head start to look for a hiding place. 

“I wish I’d paid more attention when Em was telling us about the stupid legend,” I muttered, eyes scanning through the trees for pale limbs. “Do we just need to make it until morning?”

“He only comes out at the full moon, so I assume so,” Naomi replied, slightly breathless as we jogged away from the hotel. “Maybe we can go to the village? Find somebody to let us inside?”

The village was in the opposite direction, the last place I had seen Moongazer. It wasn’t a bad plan, necessarily, but I wasn’t eager to go back toward the danger. I also wasn’t sure how much longer I would be able to keep walking on my ruined ankle, and my shirt was warm and wet against my side, which had just started to burn with pain. The adrenaline was starting to recede, and I could feel my body crashing. 

“Not an option,” I finally said, limping further into the trees. “The airport is this way, right? It’s closer; we should look for help there.”

Naomi stopped moving. I turned to face her and saw that she was frowning. “The airport? Gwen, it’s sure to be closed by now, as small as it is, and there’s nobody between here and there. What will we do if he catches up to us?”

“I don’t know!” I snapped. Naomi flinched, something hard flashing through her eyes for a split second before it was gone. “I don’t know,” I repeated more softly, “but I won’t be able to make it back to the village in this state, and surely there’s somebody on staff this late - small or not, it’s still an airport, right? There has to be air traffic controllers, cops, something!”

Naomi looked away, and I thought I saw a look of annoyance twist her features. 

“I think this is a really bad plan, Gwen.” 

“Do you have a better one?” 

“Yes, the village,” Naomi replied, arms crossed.

“I like my plan better,” I sniped back. Why is she fighting me on this? 

“Yeah, well, you would.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I demanded.

“It was your big plan to taunt a fucking mythological monster and get us into this mess in the first place, is what I mean.” 

My blood turned to ice. Naomi’s voice was dripping with hateful sarcasm. I’d never heard her like this before.

“How was I supposed to know it was real, Naomi? How?” I demanded. I took a step toward her and my ankle, pushed well past its limits, finally gave out. Naomi caught me as I sunk to the ground and helped me sit on a fallen log. 

“I didn’t know,” I whispered.

“I know you didn’t, Gwen,” Naomi replied, voice devoid of emotion. When I glanced up at her, though, Naomi was smiling kindly - sadly - at me. “I know. And Emelia knew that too.”

Guilt stabbed through me again at the mention of Emelia. Naomi carded her fingers through my hair, soothing. 

“I’m going back to the hotel to see if I can get in and find something to patch you up.”

“Wait, no, Naomi -”

“It’s like you said, Gwen,” Naomi shrugged. “You can’t make it much further like this. Let’s patch you up and head for the village. I know it’s the right thing to do.”

I looked up at Naomi’s face. Her expression was earnest, but something wasn’t right about her eyes. For a moment, I was reminded of Moongazer’s empty, featureless face. I thought of the empty, locked hotel lobby, the deserted beach. I thought of how Naomi had disappeared while Emelia and I ran for our lives. Hadn’t it been Naomi’s idea to go to the beach tonight? 

I made a decision.

“Okay,” I conceded, and Naomi smiled. Was it encouraging, or self-satisfied? “Okay, I’ll wait here.”

“I won’t be long,” Naomi promised, backing away from me. “I’ll be back for you!”

I waved her off and allowed myself a few moments to rest. When I was sure she was gone, I braced my hands on the log and pushed myself slowly back to my feet, testing my ankle. The airport was a few miles away, and it would definitely be a miracle if I made it that far, but I had to try. Whatever Naomi was up to - was she working with Moongazer, somehow? - I figured I could still get myself a decent head start. 

What if you’re wrong? A voice whispered in the back of my head. What if Naomi is as innocent as you, as innocent as Emelia? Are you really going to leave another of your friends to die?

If Moongazer goes after Naomi, another voice whispered, you’ll really have plenty of time to get to the airport.

I shoved my doubt and guilt into a lockbox deep in my mind. Those were feelings to examine later, if ever. None of this was my fault, I reassured myself. How could I know the monster was real? How could I know if Emelia and I could have escaped together? How could I know whether or not Naomi was on my side?  

For now, I only had one goal: survive, no matter the cost.
]]><![CDATA[She hunts on Halloween]]>Sat, 31 Oct 2020 13:29:29 GMThttps://www.how-queer.com/fiction/she-hunts-on-halloweenI first met her on Halloween. That's when she hunts.

There’s a dark, secluded road on the south edge of the city. Black River Parkway, according to the maps, but there are no street signs. It winds for several miles through the middle of Black River Park. It’s ostensibly a city park, but you won’t find any gazebos or soccer fields or walking paths. Just miles upon miles of untamed nature, tucked away between the city limits and the suburbs beyond. 

Black River feels more like it belongs in the deep country. The road is lined on one side by a limestone cliff face and the other by dense forest, a winding river tucked a ways back in the trees. Branches arc over the roadway and form a tunnel. You’d expect the drive to be pretty on bright Fall days - the sun filtering through a canopy of orange, red, and yellow - but light has a hard time penetrating that gnarled tangle of limbs and leaves. Night is worse; regular headlights only penetrate a few feet into that darkness, and turning on the brights only illuminates the next curve, no way of knowing what lurks in the pitch black around the bend.

I always hated that goddamned road.

My husband, John, and I lived a few miles away from the park. We were high school sweethearts. He was the captain of the football team, and I was the shy nerd who tutored him so he'd be able to keep playing. We grew up in a small town, and I never really had any friends until John took a liking to me. He used to call me his “pretty little brain.” Demeaning, I suppose, but as an affection-starved teenage girl I thought it was sweet. Everybody thought we had such a cute romance. 

They didn’t see the bruises, of course.

It started after graduation. College wasn’t in the cards for us; whatever the townspeople might say, John wasn’t remarkable enough for a football scholarship, and neither of our families had the money to pay tuition. I might have scored an academic scholarship, but I was young and smitten, and I wasn’t going to go anywhere without John. We got married and found a little rent-to-own mobile home in a park near the city. I got my CNA certification and went to work in a nursing home. John found a job in construction. We got married a couple of months later. 

It was nice at first, just the two of us building a life together. I thought we could be happy, even if we didn’t have much. John, however, wasn't so easily satisfied.

In our small town he was king, but in the city he was just another grunt doing manual labor. A few months after we got hitched, John lost his job at the construction site. He’d been getting into fights, they said. They had disrespected him, he told me.  He jumped from job to job after that but eventually settled on drinking as his primary career path.

From the start, John blamed me for his lack of success. If he’d spent less time studying, he reckoned, and more time on the field, he could have made it to the big time. He’d remind me of this when he woke me up at 3 a.m. and dragged me  to the kitchen to clean his spilled beer, or when he screamed at me for spending too much money on new scrubs for work, or when he shoved me into the bedroom, demanding I fulfill my “wifely duties.” It didn’t take long for the screaming and shoving to turn to hitting and kicking. He started taking all of my paychecks as soon as they came in, blowing what we didn’t need to live on booze and cigarettes.

I tried to leave, once. It was about a year in. I didn’t have any friends in the city, and John took all my money, so I hitchhiked back home to my parents. I showed up on their doorstep one day looking like a real cliche - black eye stark on my pale face, a ring of bruises on my upper arm, rain-soaked and shivering. They took me in, dried me off, and nursed my wounds.

Then they called John.

Ours was a God-fearing town, you see. We didn’t believe in divorce. A woman’s job was to submit to her husband. 

“Natalie,” my mama said, pressing a frozen pack of peas to my eye socket. “You just need to try harder to make him happy.”

My daddy gave John a firm talking to when he got there, and we were sent on our way with a handshake and a hug.

I hate to say it, but I gave up that day, staring out the windshield while John fumed silently in the driver’s seat. There was a honeybee stuck in the windshield wiper, not quite dead, antennae and wings twitching in the buffeting wind. I watched its struggle get weaker and weaker, until eventually it stopped struggling at all. 

It was after midnight when we got back to the city. When we were close to home, John turned the truck onto Black River Parkway. 

“Where are we going?”

John tightened his grip on the steering wheel, knuckles white.

“John, baby, I’m sorry I left.”

He flicked on the brights, head swiveling, eyes searching the roadside. I squirmed in my seat. I tried to see anything out the windows - any indication of where he might be taking me - but it was all just darkness. 

“John -”

He swerved to the opposite shoulder without warning, making a sharp U-turn. I braced myself on the dashboard as he skidded to a stop in a small, dirt pull-off. He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to face me, lips curled in a snarl. 

“Shut the fuck up, Nat.” 

The beating he gave me was the least of it. With no neighbors to worry about, there was no need to hold back. 

So he didn’t.

He apologized on the drive home, after. Begged me not to make him that angry again. I curled in on myself in the passenger seat, body one massive, aching bruise. I didn’t respond. It didn’t matter whether he was sorry or not, really.

I had nowhere else to go.

After that, Black River Parkway became his favorite place to dole out punishment. I changed my bus route to work just to avoid driving past it. It took me an hour longer to get there, but that was just two extra hours a day that John couldn’t lay hands on me. 

I knew that someday, the cops were going to find my body on the side of that goddamned road. 

Ten years ago, I thought it was that day. John had made some new drinking buddies, and we had gone to a Halloween party at his friend Al’s. I wore the sexy cheerleader costume he’d bought me and covered my black eye with concealer, determined to be the perfect date. I was all smiles and docile obedience, but it was no use: by the end of the night, John was shitfaced, and I was nothing to drunk John but a punching bag.

“Useless fuckin’ whore,” he seethed, swerving across the center line of the parkway. He reached over to smack me with a clumsy hand. 

“John, watch the road,” I begged, dodging to avoid his knuckles. He was going to crash into a tree and kill us both before he even had the chance to kill me.

“Don’t tell me how t’ drive, bitch.” His hand almost connected with my nose but slapped across my cheek instead. I blinked back tears at the sting. 

“John, please, I know you’re angry…”

“Angry? Angry?” John laughed, ugly and low. He looked over at me with a sneer. “Slut flirts wi’ my friends all night and wonders why I’m angry?”

We swerved close enough to the cliff face that the passenger side mirror scraped across the rock, crumpling its plastic housing.

“John! Please," I sobbed, trying to shrink against the passenger door.

John pressed his foot down more firmly on the accelerator. His hand tangled in my hair, and he wound it around his fist, pulling me toward him across the armrest.

“Keep begging, won’ do no good.” His breath was hot against my ear. The scent of stale beer wafted to my nostrils, and I tried not to gag. 

“John,” I whimpered, “I -” 

A figure loomed ahead in the headlights. A tall woman in a white dress and a strange mask was standing in the center of the road just before the next curve. 

“JOHN!”

My scream startled him enough to actually look. 

“Fuck!” 

He pulled the steering wheel hard to the left. We crashed into the treeline, branches cracking against the glass of the windshield. I barely had time to register the large trunk looming out of the darkness before we hit it with a sickening crunch.

Everything went black.

My senses came back to me slowly. Sharp pain lanced through my collarbone where the seat belt had caught it; my nose felt wrong, loose and crooked, and blood streamed from both nostrils, red saturating the nylon of the airbag. A repetitive chime sounded in time with the throbbing in my head. I groaned and blinked my eyes open.

The front of the truck was crumpled against the tree, the windshield twisted and crushed in its frame. I shook chunks of safety glass out of my hair and wiggled my fingers and toes. Nothing seemed broken. I looked over at the driver’s seat to check on John.

The seat was empty, and the door was hanging open.

“John,” I croaked. I got no response.

I stumbled out of the cab after struggling with the passenger door in its bent frame. I looked back in what I thought was the direction of the road, but I couldn't see anything but the dark silhouettes of tree trunks. 

“John?” I called again, little more than a whisper in the oppressive silence. A breeze rustled the leaves overhead. Aside from the wind and the distant roar of the river, there were no sounds of any kind - no crickets or owls, nothing rustling in the bushes or in the branches above. 

I circled the truck bed, fighting off waves of dizziness and nausea. Part of me wanted to just walk away, leave John for dead in the woods and make my way back to the parkway to check on the woman we'd almost hit, but the woods were dense. I was injured and alone, the night was pitch black, and I was starting to think John had already had the same idea about me.

I'm not an expert tracker or anything, but my daddy used to take me hunting when I was a girl. I studied the ground on John's side of the truck, looking for any clue to where he might have gone. The leaves and brush heading straight out from the driver's door had clearly been disturbed. It seemed as good a path as any to follow.

I leaned back into the cab to find my phone, and I pulled up short when I saw John's still sitting in the cup holder next to mine. He may have been a drunk and a bastard, but he wasn't an idiot; why the hell would he wander off into the woods - possibly injured - without his phone? I pocketed his and opened the flashlight on mine. As I started to exit the cab, something else caught my eye.

John's shotgun sat in its holster above the rear window. I hesitated for a second before deciding it was better to be safe than sorry. I grabbed the gun and a handful of shells from the box in the backseat.

Phone in one hand and gun propped on my shoulder, I set off to follow the path John had laid. Even with the flashlight, it was impossible to see more than a couple of feet. I kept my eyes focused on the ground so I wouldn't lose his trail.

John hadn't been trying to conceal his route, that was for sure. Small branches were snapped and hanging loose where he'd plowed through them. A blanket of flattened, wet leaves and packed dirt stretched ahead of me, almost as if he'd been dragging something behind him. I thought back to the woman on the road. Something settled heavily in my gut. John usually only took his anger out on me, but I shuddered at the thought that some innocent stranger had gotten caught up in our mess. 

I tightened my grip on the shotgun and pressed on. That eerie silence followed me, but the sound of the river was getting louder. The trees were thinning out, but it didn't do much for the darkness. When I looked up, I could make out the sliver of the crescent moon high in the sky. I squinted at the stars, trying to get a sense of what direction I was heading.

A slimy, wet hand closed around my ankle.

I flailed backward, losing my grip on the phone, and kicked out wildly. My foot connected with a fleshy thud, and the figure on the ground let me go with a pained moan.

My phone had landed a few feet away, flashlight smothered by rotting leaves. I couldn't make out who had grabbed me, but they looked too bulky to be the slender woman I'd seen on the road. Trembling, I crept toward my phone, eyes trained on the shadow on the ground. They gurgled.

I lifted the light with shaking hands. 

"...John?"

He let out another choked gurgle that might have been my name. He was laid out on the ground crawling on his belly, arm stretched toward me, fingers scrabbling weakly at the forest floor. Four deep gashes marred his handsome face, his lips mangled and shredded. The back of his jacket was slashed and splattered red, and he dragged his limp legs behind him, Levi's soaked through with blood.

Before I could say or do anything, melodic laughter rent the silence. John's eyes went wide, and he was yanked back into the darkness.

It might not have been my brightest moment, but instinct and adrenaline kicked in, and I was after him like a shot. I tossed my phone aside to grip the shotgun in both hands, barrel aimed forward into the dark. A high scream echoed through the woods around me, and my blood froze; it was a clear, cold cry of triumph.

I emerged from the trees on the bank of the river. The dim light of the crescent moon rippled on the water's surface. On the shore, the woman from the road towered over John's broken body.

Only she wasn't a woman at all.

Most of her looked human enough, though she stood well over six feet tall. Thick black hair tumbled over her shoulders in a wild tangle. Black antlers curved proudly skyward from the mass of curls, regal as a crown. Her face was obscured by a mask made from the skull of a buck. From a distance, her eyes were nothing but empty black pools.

Her white dress was almost sheer, the curve of her breasts visible through the fabric, and the hem fluttered about her thighs just above the knee. Dirt and blood stained the bottom few inches of the skirt. Toned muscles shifted under skin that shone ethereally in the moonlighting, so pale it was almost translucent.

Black veins emerged in tendrils from under the mask, snaking across her pale skin until they converged into thick, iridescent black scales on her forearms and calves. The scales covered her hands and feet, and her long, bony fingers were tipped with gleaming black talons several inches long and curved to a wicked point.

As I stood frozen at the treeline, she reached one arm up toward the sky, talons extended. With another inhuman shriek, she brought those claws straight down onto John's chest. I could hear the sucking squelch when they pierced his skin, the crack of his ribs giving way, and blood sprayed over her dress in a fine mist. John's limbs spasmed, but she twisted her wrist with a sickening crunch, and he went still.

I remained frozen, finger trembling on the shotgun's trigger, while the creature rooted around in John's chest. When her hand emerged, red and glistening, she was clutching his heart in her claws.

I think my mind meant to scream, but all I managed was a pitiful whimper. The creature's head shot up to look at me just the same.

She dropped John's heart back onto his chest, where it landed with a wet thud. Black eyes trained on mine, she stalked toward me, unhurried. She moved with leonine grace, long strides swiftly closing the gap between us, until her belly was pressed to the muzzle of my shotgun. I had to crane my neck back to keep looking at the bleached bone of her mask. Slowly, she brought a hand up to rest on top of the gun's barrel - gently, not pushing - and I watched her claws retract to a less lethal length. My finger slid off the trigger, and I let the gun drop to my side. 

She crouched down to meet my gaze, head tilted to one side. Shining black eyes studied me from behind the mask, an endless void, and the longer I stared, I swore I could see galaxies swirling in their depths. She raised a hand and lightly brushed the rough pads of her scaled fingers across my temple, down the bridge of my nose, across my collarbone. The pain from my injuries faded to a dull ache.

I was bone tired all of a sudden, and I felt my knees start to give way. The creature caught me under my arms and guided me down to the forest floor, settled on a blanket of leaves and dirt with my head nestled in her bloodstained lap. She ran her fingers through my hair, careful not to scratch me with her nails, and started to hum a melody I didn't recognize, haunting and deep. Staring up at the stars in her eyes, I drifted out of consciousness.

I dreamt of a cottage by the river. I was dancing in the backyard around a roaring fire near the shore, hands clasped with a beautiful woman with long, dark hair and eyes as black as night. She smiled at me, and I smiled back.

I was awakened by a racket of sirens and shouting voices. My head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton, and I struggled at first against the hands curled around my upper arms. When the fog lifted, I found myself strapped to a gurney staring up into the faces of two worried paramedics. One of them slid a needle into my arm, and the world went blissfully dark.

The cops came to talk to me at the hospital later that day and helped fill in the gaps. A driver on Black River Parkway spotted my bloodied body slumped on the side of the road and assumed the worst. They were shocked when I turned out to be alive - a miracle, they said - and rushed me into an ambulance. It didn't take them long to find the crashed truck a few hundred feet into the trees. 

Thankfully, nobody asked too many questions. They pieced together a narrative that made sense and stuck with it: John was driving drunk and nearly got us killed, and he got lost in the woods when he went looking for help. Happens all the time, they assured me. I was lucky I went the opposite direction and found the road. After a few days, their search for John turned to a search for a corpse, and after a few weeks they stopped searching altogether.

It seemed easier to go along with their story than try to convince them of the truth. Figured they would think I was talking nonsense, or else I hit my head too hard and had one hell of a fever dream.

I reckon that's what you all think too.

Whatever you want to believe, that night changed me. I got my shit together and thought for the first time about what I wanted to do with my life. Without John taking all my money to fuel his vices, I was able to save up a nice little nest egg. Without John, turned out, I was able to do a lot of things. I went back to school and got my nursing degree and landed a well-paying job. It took a few years of hard work and frugal living, but when all was said and done I sold the mobile home and got myself a two-bedroom cottage near Black River. I've never remarried, but that's alright. 

Every year I have a date on Halloween.

There's no shortage of men like John in this world: self-proclaimed alpha males who find themselves at the bottom of the pack when they step out of their mama's den. Their impotent rage feeds into a bottomless well of cruelty, and they vomit it out through their fists on those they perceive as beneath them.

I know those men see me as an easy target: a scared little rabbit to their big bad wolf. I've got big doe eyes and soft brown curls framing a baby face that looks a good deal younger than my 35 years. All I have to do is bat my eyelashes at them, and they go on the prowl.

This year's wolf is Gary. He's married to my coworker, Jill. I normally wouldn't pick a guy so close to home, but I took one look at the black and blue fingerprints ringing sweet, timid Jill's neck, and I knew he was the one.

It didn't take much to hook him. I went out for a smoke break while he was waiting for Jill to finish up her shift, making sure my scrubs were just a little tighter than usual. He leered at me, and I offered up a shy smile and a pretty pink blush in return. He rolled up to the curb and asked for my number.

Gary is picking me up this evening. I got my costume all laid out, same as every year: a sweet little deer, complete with pointed ears and a white fluffy tail. He'll follow that tail through the dark of the woods without sniffing a hint of danger in the air, just like all the others before him. 

There's a party out in Black River Park, I've told Gary, where we can do whatever we want, secluded from prying eyes. I know the way, I've promised, and I'm happy to lead him there. He'll try to paw at me on the trail, eager to taste his prize. But I'm quicker than a wolf, and I won't be caught in his claws. I've got places to be.

At the end of the path, by a river bathed in moonlight, my date waits for me. I think she'll like my gift this year. She always does. I meet her every year on Halloween. 

That's when we hunt.
]]><![CDATA[Show me that pretty face]]>Wed, 28 Oct 2020 02:46:37 GMThttps://www.how-queer.com/fiction/show-me-that-pretty-faceContent warning (highlight to reveal): Body horror/self harm

While I absolutely respect the necessity of social distancing, last weekend I got really fed up with being cooped up on my own. 

I decided to check out an outdoor flea market to get out of the house. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular; I just needed some fresh air and a bit of face-to-face interaction, even if it was from 6 feet away through a mask. 

I perused the various booths and vendors, but not much caught my eye. I found myself quickly wishing for the air-conditioned comfort of my condo. I had forgotten to wear sunscreen, and I could feel the skin on the back of my neck baking in the late-morning sun. My breath was growing humid in the confines of my mask, and the cotton was starting to stick to my face with every breath. This wasn't the invigorating outing I had hoped for. I’ve always loved shopping at antique stores and thrift shops, but it’s not the same when you can’t run your fingertips over the intricate weaving of an old tapestry, or lean close to inhale the crisp, woodsy scent of an old cedar wardrobe. 

My mind continued to wander in this melancholy direction as I aimlessly made my way to the end of the row. I was just about to trudge back to the car, morose and empty-handed, when a bright flash of light blinded me. My hand shot up instinctively to shield my eyes, and I looked around for the source. 

On the ground, leaning against the support pole of a tent, stood a massive, ornate mirror. Its rectangular frame was painted in a gold metallic that was now dull with age, inset with an intricate design. I watched in the reflection as my sandaled feet approached.
​
It was even more impressive up close. The frame was neoclassical in style, made of a heavy wood and engraved in a pattern of winding ivy, gilt with gold leaf that had started to flake off. The reflective surface itself was in astonishingly good shape for its age with only minor desilvering near the corners. There was a faint crack down the center, but it was so fine that it was practically invisible when facing it head-on. Mindlessly, I reached out a hand and ran it over the internal edge where the mirror met the wood frame. The wood was warm from sitting out in the sunlight, but the glass was ice cold. A shiver ran up my arm. 

“You touch it, you buy it.”

I jumped back. A tired-looking old man was leaning against a table in the tent. Most of his face was covered by an old, navy blue bandana, but his brown eyes stared at me shrewdly.

“Sorry, sir.”

He waved off my “sir” and pushed himself to his feet. He ambled over to inspect the mirror, maintaining a respectable distance. He wore a wide-brim black Stetson and a red, plaid button-down tucked into faded blue Levi’s. I guessed he was the proprietor of the booth; he matched the vibe, tables full of handcrafted leather saddles and riding gear, as well as some stunning landscape paintings of the prairie at sunset. The mirror was definitely out of place with the rest of his merchandise.

“Did you make all of this?”

He shrugged and swept a hand over the display tables in his tent. “Ain’t a lot else for an old cowboy like me to do.” He jerked a short nod at the mirror. “But that ol’ thing, that was my wife’s. Been hangin’ around the house since she passed away last year. I’m ready to be rid of the damn thing.”

His kind eyes went dark, heavy with grief, and he glared at the mirror as if it was personally responsible for his wife's death.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, sir.”

He didn't respond at first. He took off his cowboy hat and ran a hand over short-cropped white hair. He looked up at the sky and heaved a deep sigh. 

“Reckon I’ll join her soon," he muttered under his breath.

I felt a pang in my chest. Here I was, sulking about my own loneliness, but at least I had my youth and health. I could still FaceTime my fiancée any time I wanted. 

"Well I can take this thing off your hands," I smiled, gesturing at the mirror. "How much?"

The old man refocused his attention on me. "What?" he asked, voice sharp and eyes narrowed.

His reaction took me off guard. "I- I like antiques, I mean." I wrung my hands. "I think this would look great in my condo."

His expression softened, but his eyes were still strange. It was hard to read the emotion there.

"Right, right," he said, slowly, looking around the rest of his tent. "You sure you want that old, gaudy thing? What about one of the paintings instead?” He laughed, breathless and a little manic, and wiped the palms of his hands on his denim-clad thighs. “A beautiful girl like you deserves something beautiful in her home, after all."

It was a clumsy attempt at flattery, but I smiled graciously all the same. I started to wonder if he wasn't as ready to let go of this last memory of his wife as he originally claimed.

"Sir- or, what's your name?" 

"George."

"Hi George, I'm Shawn." I had to physically resist the urge to reach out for a handshake. "I really do love this old mirror, so please don't think I'm just trying to do you a favor. If you're ready to part with it, I would really love to buy it from you." 

My eyes slid back to the old wood and cool glass, and I was a bit startled to realize I truly did love it. I wiggled my toes just to watch my nail polish sparkle in the reflection. I suddenly - desperately - needed to have it.  I shook off the odd feeling and met George's eyes once more. He looked concerned.

More than that, he looked sad.

"Irma loved that mirror too." He touched a corner of the frame. "And if you're anything like her, I'm sure you have to have it."

I was a bit unnerved by how close he was to my internal monologue, but I tried not to show it. I smiled brightly behind my mask and nodded.

"I guess Irma and I have similar taste," I said, trying to lighten the mood. 

His expression didn't change. "I guess you do." He heaved a heavy sigh and looked back up at me. "It's all yours."

I started to pull out my wallet, and he reached out a hand to stop me. He stopped short, catching himself, and waved me off instead. "No, no. Don’ want any money for it. I should be paying you, really."

I laughed, sure he was joking. He didn’t even smile.

"Are you sure? It looks expensive."

He huffed, dry and humorless. "You have no idea."

George offered to carry the mirror to my car; the deal settled, he seemed in a rush to get me out of his tent. I declined his offer, less than eager to make small talk all the way back to the parking lot. There was nothing wrong with him, but once I had decided to take the mirror our interaction had become stilted and awkward.  I had to stop a few times to catch my breath, but I managed, at last, to heave the large frame into the back of my Subaru. 

As soon as I got home, I lugged it up the stairs to my third-floor condo and set about hanging it up. I can’t explain why I was so excited to install it. I suppose I had been looking for something with a little more character to replace the aluminum, builder’s-grade mirror in the master bathroom, but I felt a sense of urgency buzzing under my skin. My own voice in the back of my head whispered about how beautiful it was, how wonderful it would look on my pastel blue wall.

I wrestled with my cheap IKEA power drill and broke a handful of plastic wall anchors trying to hang the massive thing without ripping apart the drywall. It was a close call, but after several hours I eventually managed it. You could only tell it was crooked if you tilted your head and squinted. 

I immediately FaceTimed my fiancée, Elena, proud of my handywoman skills. She laughed out loud when she saw it. 

“Shawn, babe. It certainly makes a statement.”

I grinned proudly.

“Isn’t it a monstrosity? I was just so tired of looking at the chipped edges of that old piece of garbage they had up before.”

“Fair enough,” she laughed again, pushing her bangs out of her eyes. “I’m just glad you didn’t put a hole in the wall.”

“Well you haven’t seen behind it.” I grinned when that sent her giggling. She launched into a story about the last time I tried to repair something in her apartment. I’d heard it before - I was there - and I found myself zoning out as I studied my reflection. My teeth looked extra white in the mirror, my lips redder and fuller, cheeks rosier than usual; my hair was much more artfully styled than I remembered it being that morning. I stretched out a hand to touch the glass-

“-Shawn? Are you even listening to me?” 

I snapped my eyes back to my phone screen. I looked at the call time and was shocked to see that over 5 minutes had passed.

“Yeah, of course!” Elena frowned, unimpressed, so I opted for the truth. “Actually, no. Sorry, El. I kinda zoned out.”

Her brow furrowed. 

“Shawn...I know you said you’re OK on your own, but if you want me to go ahead and move out there early, we could try to hide it from my family--”

“No, no!” I cut her off before she could go too far with that train of thought. I smiled at her, reassuring. “I’ll be fine, promise. Just a few more months until the big day, right?” 

She didn’t seem convinced, but she let it drop. “If you say so. You know I’m always just a phone call away.”

“I know, babe.” I looked at the clock. I had a shift in 5 minutes. “I have to go - I love you, future Mrs. Lopez-Wiśniewski.”

She laughed brightly. “Alright, future Mrs. Lo-Wis. Love you too.”

My shift felt endless. My office was in the room across the hall from the master bedroom, and I couldn’t see the mirror even if I wanted to. And I did want to. I couldn’t get it out of my head. Was I imagining things, or did I actually look better in its reflection compared to the old one? I got chastised a couple of times for failing to answer management’s questions during our team meeting, but my mind continued to drift.

Before bed, I pulled the old rectangular mirror out from the hall closet where I’d stashed it. My reflection seemed flat, lifeless. I shoved it back behind a bag of old clothes bound for Goodwill.

Biting my lip, I went back into the master bathroom. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly. I stared at my reflection.

It wasn’t my imagination. It was like the world in the mirror was shot in beauty mode. My features appeared softer, more delicate and feminine than in the other mirror. There had to be something special about its design. I grabbed my desk chair from the office and rolled it into the bathroom, determined to study the glass more closely and find the mechanism that made it work. 

I settled in and stared at myself. My nose, which I’ve always found lumpy and awkward, definitely appeared smaller, curved elegantly to a rosy point. I hadn’t plucked my eyebrows in weeks, but they looked clean and refined. I arched one and let out a delighted laugh at the elegant picture it made. There was no sign of my usual acne scars; in fact, I couldn’t see a single blemish, even though I was sure I’d seen an emerging zit that same morning.

What had started out as a quest to find the mirror’s secret, whatever trick allowed it to paint such a pretty picture of its subject, had quickly devolved into an exercise in vanity. I tilted my head from one side to another and preened. 

My shoulders looked decidedly less blocky and curved delicately into a long, graceful neck. My eyes were absolutely stunning: they looked a much brighter blue than usual, vivid, twinkling conspiratorially. My mouth was curved in a small, sly grin. If I kept staring, the quirk of my lips said, I could become the woman in my reflection. After all, the woman in the mirror was me, if an idealized version. The more I studied my reflection, that whispering voice in my head promised, the more I would become like her. I just needed to keep staring into those sparkling blue eyes…

My head cracking against the quartz of the bathroom counter jolted me back to reality. 

“Ffffuck.” 

I gingerly touched my fingertips to the knot growing on my temple. The lighting in the bathroom seemed brighter, and I blinked against it for a while before I realized that sunlight was streaming in through the window. Alarmed, I checked the clock on my phone. My battery was nearly dead, and it was 10 a.m. 

Twelve hours had passed. I had slept through my morning shift. 

“Shit!” I stumbled out of the chair and wheeled it back into my office. Several angry emails awaited me from my boss. I shot off a quick message that I had hit my head that morning and must have passed out, which didn’t seem too far from the truth. 

I grabbed an ice pack from the freezer and plopped down on the living room couch, plugging in my phone. I frowned up at the ceiling; when had I fallen asleep? I didn’t remember dreaming anything. The last thing I was aware of before my face crashed into the countertop was staring into my own mirror-enhanced eyes.

Maybe Elena was right, I thought. I’ve been spending too much time alone. 

As if on cue, my phone rang in my hand. My fiancée’s worried face popped up on the screen.

“Shawn? Babe, are you okay?”

Shit. I had missed our morning call.

"Sorry, El. I overslept and whacked my head on the bathroom counter in my rush for work. Totally spaced on texting you.."

My stomach squirmed at the lie. I don't know why I didn't just tell her the truth. Something inside me told me it would be a bad idea. I didn't want her to worry.

So much for that.

The rest of the call went...poorly. I was short with her, snappish. It wasn’t fair at all - she just wanted to make sure I wasn't hurt. But my mind was focused on getting to the bottom of the mirror mystery. My head pulsed angrily while she rambled on about hospitals and catching a flight to come see me. Hurt flashed across her features when I told her not to bother, that I didn’t need a babysitter. I don’t really remember how we left things. I just know at some point I couldn’t stand her growing look of concern, so I hung up on her and turned off the phone. 

Cautiously, I went back into the bathroom, approaching the mirror slowly, as if it might lash out at any sudden movement.  I turned off the fluorescent overhead lights, too bright for my pounding headache. Taking a deep breath, I faced my reflection once more.

Even in the dim late-morning light filtering through the blinds, the mirror’s effects were still firmly in place. I studied my reflection again, determined not to lose myself in it like before. Even though I had never felt grumpier, I could swear that my reflection’s lips were still curled up in a small, self-satisfied smile. Scowling, I flipped myself the bird, stormed back into my bedroom, and collapsed face-down on my mattress.

When I woke up, it was almost midnight. I should have gone to check my work email, but I wasn’t looking forward to the verbal lashing I knew awaited me for missing yet another shift. I would deal with that - and the fallout with Elena - in the morning. I started to turn over and go back to sleep, but I caught movement in the bathroom in the corner of my eye.

I sat up straight in bed. There was a figure standing on the other side of my bathroom vanity. 

In the mirror. 

Terror gripped my throat, and I clutched the comforter closer to my chest as if it could protect me. I squinted into the darkness, trying to get a better look.

It was me.

My mirror image was grinning widely, sharp teeth gleaming in the moonlight. The smile didn’t reach its cold, hard stare. There was a cruel set to its brow, head tilted to one side, studying my cowering form on the bed with pitying disdain.  My reflection opened its mouth.

“Where did you go, Shawn.?” The thing in the mirror spoke in my voice, a cheery sing-song, but it echoed strangely off the tiled walls.  

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the image away. I opened them to find my own face, terrifyingly beautiful in the moonlight, inches away from my own. The stench of rot invaded my nostrils.

“Show me that pretty face,” it growled, deep and inhuman.

I woke up screaming, my clothes and sheets drenched in sweat. Sunrise poured in through the windows; I still hadn’t gotten around to hanging my curtains. Birds chirped cheerily in the trees outside. I gasped for breath, feeling like I’d just sprinted a mile.

My head still ached fiercely, and my own distorted voice echoed in my ears. I turned to look at my bathroom. The mirror looked innocuous in the morning light.

I laughed at myself and tried to shrug off the nightmare. I got ready in the hall bathroom, though.

As expected, my boss was pissed at me for being a no-show the day before, but she softened when I went into further detail about my head injury - leaving out the lost time and the strange dream, of course. She was even kind enough to offer me the day off. The throbbing in my temple wanted me to say yes, but I refused. If I didn’t work, I would have to call Elena, and I still had no explanation for why I was such an ass to her the day before. I did send her a short text before I settled in for work:

Sorry baby. I was having a shit day, and I took it out on you. Busy catching up on work, but we’ll talk later, yeah?

She immediately tried to call me. Heart sinking with guilt, I put the phone on silent. 

The rest of the day was uneventful, but it was also unproductive. Try as I might, I couldn’t shake the sense of dread that had followed me out of my nightmare. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as if somebody was watching me. I stopped checking after the first few times and tried to focus.

I had to work several extra hours to get all my work done, and by early evening I was completely wiped out. I started to flip over my phone to see if Elena had called or texted again, but pulled my hand back at the last second. I was just too goddamn tired to face it. I got ready for bed in the hall bathroom, and I shut the door to the master bathroom before going to sleep.

It seemed like I had barely closed my eyes when a cold breeze blew across my face, rustling my hair. Refusing to give in to my newfound paranoia, I squeezed my eyes shut and refused to look for the source.

A beat. Then, my own voice whispered directly in my ear, hot, humid breath gusting over the shell: 

“Show me that pretty face.”

With a yelp, I shot upright in bed and turned toward the bathroom door.

It was standing wide open.

Fuck. That.

I scrambled out of bed and marched straight to the closet for my toolbox. Maybe I was losing it, maybe the loneliness was starting to get to me and I was imagining things, but I was beginning to think that the old man's warning wasn't just because the mirror was heavy and old. 

I steeled myself and stepped once more into my master bathroom. I reached up to grasp the mirror’s heavy frame when something caught my eye.

For the most part, my reflection was still as beautiful as it had been the first time I saw it. But on my forehead, almost to my temple, a blotchy red lump pulsed where I had whacked my head on the counter. It hadn’t been there when I went to bed the night before. I poked and prodded at it for a couple of minutes; the area felt bruised under my fingertips, but it didn't seem as pronounced as the bump looked in my reflection. 

I pressed on it gently, and something moved.

I shrieked and jumped back, palm pressed tightly over the bump. My reflection seemed to be smiling again, head tilted slightly enough that it could have just been my imagination. 

I stepped closer to the mirror and removed my hand. The spot seemed to be growing, wriggling and pulsing in time with my heartbeat, even though I couldn’t feel it when I pressed on it with my fingers.

Panic caused my breath to come in short bursts. Should I call a doctor? 

Before I could follow that sensible plan of action, movement in my reflection brought me up short. Astonished, I watched as my hand reached into the vanity drawer out of frame.

When it reappeared, a pair of gleaming nail scissors were held in its grasp.

I looked down and was shocked to see the scissors in my own hand. I felt like I was no longer in control of my own body. The spot on my head jumped beneath my skin. Something sick turned over in my stomach.

With a sudden clarity, I knew what I had to do.

My hand was trembling as it reached for the spot with the scissors, but in the reflection it was steady. I pressed the point of my scissors into the center of the lump, and was shocked and relieved when it didn’t hurt. I pressed in hard, until I felt the skin give way. I spread my fingers and opened the blades, spreading the hole wider. Something hot and viscous dripped down my temple, clouding my vision red, but my reflection was clean and bloodless. I drew my hand away and could see perfect, poreless skin peeking out through the tiny hole I had made. 

I dropped the scissors into the sink and was shocked to see bright red drops scatter over the porcelain. The liquid coated my fingers, slippery and thick. As I stared, pain started to build in my temple, increasing exponentially with each passing second. I felt like I couldn’t catch my breath. In a panic, I snapped my eyes back up to the mirror.

The pain disappeared once more. My face in the mirror was smiling at me kindly. The untouched stretch of skin over my cheekbone, a few inches below the hole I had made, started to wriggle and pulse like the lump before. A calm settled over my heaving chest and shaking hands, quelling the growing panic in my mind.

I watched in horror as my fingers pinched the skin on each side of the hole and pulled. 

My skin tore apart like wet paper, more of that flawless visage revealed. I dug my fingers into the flesh, hands eager to remove the writhing, blemished mass hiding the picture-perfect face below. Each time I thought I had caught up to the wriggling mass worming its way under my skin, it moved just a little bit farther, and my skin ripped just a little bit more.

Distantly, I could feel that the flesh under my fingertips was slippery, something warm dripping down my hand and into my shirtsleeve. But those beautiful blue eyes in the mirror compelled me to continue, and I was powerless to resist.

I was almost halfway across the bridge of my nose when my movements faltered. The uncovered half of my face shone with an ethereal sort of beauty. The figure in the mirror nodded in encouragement. I dug my fingers under the unpeeled edge and started to pry it up.

I heard the sound of a key in the lock, but I was too engrossed in my task to pay attention. The edge of the skin over my nose was stubborn, but it finally gave way with a satisfying sucking sound.

“Shawn?” Elena’s voice drifted dreamlike down the hall. “Shawn - SHAWN!”

The air in the bathroom seemed to snap, and I sucked in a breath and turned toward the door. Elena was staring at me in horror, one hand over her mouth like she was trying not to retch. I looked down and saw that my hands and shirt were covered in blood that was still sluicing down my chin. 

And just like that, the pain set in again. My face felt like it was on fire. I collapsed to my knees. Something squishy padded my fall. I lifted my knee up as if in a trance.

Staring back up at me was the bloodied, formless half of my own face. 

I vomited, and everything went dark.

I’m in the hospital now. I was heavily sedated for a few days, and I’m still on a heavy cocktail of painkillers, but at least they removed the wrist straps and let me have my phone. Elena is sitting in a chair in the corner; she hasn’t stopped crying since she found me, though she’s trying to hide it. I don’t know why she’s still here, after what she’s seen, but I’m grateful that she hasn’t abandoned me. Yet, at least. She can barely look at me, so the darker part of me figures it’s only a matter of time. 

The doctors managed to stop the bleeding and stabilize me. They’ve placed a thick colloidal dressing over the peeled side of my face. They said the plastic surgeon will be in tomorrow for a consult, but I can tell there won’t be much they can do. The nurses’ eyes are all pitying, but the twist of their mouths screams disgust. 

To be fair, I’m pretty disgusted with myself. Just before I collapsed, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the mangled remains of my face, slick sinew and red meat, one eye spinning wildly in its socket, lidless and grotesque. 

I didn’t get a good look at the untouched half, but I could tell that under the rippling skin, one once-beautiful eye had turned hard with fury.

I asked Elena yesterday to have a contractor come pull the mirror down and discard it. She didn’t even question it, just told me in her soft, sad voice that it would be done. She didn’t even flinch when I asked her to cover the mirror on the other side of my hospital room.

Because the thing is… I think getting rid of the antique mirror might be too little, too late. When I woke up from the anesthesia, behind the solemn-faced surgeon and a crying Elena holding my hand, I could see another figure standing in the room’s mirror just beyond the foot of my bed, palms pressed against the glass on the other side. 

My grotesque reflection grinned at me, one half of her face glowing with a terrifying beauty, the other half covered by a mask of rippling, writhing flesh, begging to be peeled at the corners. 

Her lips moved, and it sounded like she was whispering right in my ear. Even with the mirror covered, at night that discordant, growling approximation of my voice echoes in my head.

“C’mon Shawn. Show me that pretty face.”
]]><![CDATA[My dog hates my new apartment]]>Sun, 20 Sep 2020 23:25:29 GMThttps://www.how-queer.com/fiction/my-dog-hates-my-new-apartmentMy dog hates my new apartment. 

It's a brand new complex in an expensive Kansas City suburb. The rent is obscene, but I just landed my first big girl job out of college after years of bartending and food service. I feel like I deserved to splurge. It has it all: hardwood floors,12-foot ceilings, shiny stainless steel appliances, and crown molding (whatever that is). The neighborhood is really what jacks up the price, though. Quiet like the suburbs, but right next to a major highway with all of the modern conveniences at my fingertips. I fell in love with the atmosphere right away - bright, busy, and safe.

My little dachshund mix, Maddie, vehemently disagrees with my assessment. She rejected the place from the minute we moved in a month ago. I brought her inside before I started unloading boxes, excited for my best friend to see our fancy new digs. 

“Welcome home, Maddie-girl!” 

Maddie tilted up her nose and gave the air a haughty sniff. She turned in a circle, made direct eye contact, and dropped a massive shit in the middle of the living room floor.
​
I’ve had Maddie for 8 years and she’s always been housetrained. I scolded her, but I didn’t get too upset. I know that dogs can revert to puppy-like disobedience when getting used to a new home. I also didn’t take it seriously when she started growling at empty doorways and scratching up the wood by the baseboards like she was trying to dig her way out of the apartment. Even when she started whining during the night, pawing at me with frantic little yips, I just put her in her crate with a firm “no, Maddie” and tried to sleep through her pitiful crying. 

After a couple of weeks with no improvement, I took her to the vet. They gave her a clean bill of health and some overpriced anti-anxiety meds to help her through her “adjustment” period. The pills make her sleep through the night, but they’ve done nothing to quell her new rebellious streak. She peed on the couch and chewed off a corner of my bedroom door; she strains at the leash during walks until she chokes herself, and she’s even tried to slip her collar a couple of times. 

I feel a little guilty that I dismissed her signals as bad behavior instead of an indication that something was wrong. In my defense, I’ve never believed in ghosts or “bad energy.” I certainly never expected to have my first encounter with the supernatural in the suburbs, in the shadows between luxury condos and a Lexus dealership. 

That’s where it lives, though. Whatever it is.

My apartment has buildings on both sides of a quiet side street. On one side the complex sprawls the length of an entire block, but it only covers half that distance across the street. The property just ends, leaving a huge, unkempt lot between the road and the wooded creek that separates our neighborhood from the shopping centers beyond. A wide, paved walking path lines that side of the street, winding past the complex and the empty lot into the rest of the neighborhood.

I live in a building by the empty lot, so this is the path I take Maddie on her morning and evening walks. One second you're walking alongside a well-manicured lawn, the next it's just a field of wild, tangled prairie grass extending from the sidewalk to the dense, dark copse of trees lining the creek.  The lot has a pretty creepy atmosphere, I’ll admit, but I figured it was just because it’s so incongruous with the surroundings - a glimpse of wild nature standing stark against the manufactured pretense of the suburbs. 

Maddie, however, hates the place. Her whole body starts shaking as soon as we approach the lot. She stretches as far as she can into that untamed grass, leash strained almost to the point of breaking, her ears pointed forward toward the dark thicket of trees, eyes alert and tail pointed. Her hackles will raise, and she'll growl so low that I can barely hear her over the street noise.  It’s a far cry from the four-alarm bark that she normally lets loose to warn me that the dangerous elderly beagle from next door is outside. It’s odd and unsettling, but I assumed that she's just on her usual bullshit. I love that dog more than I love most people, but she's a high-strung little mutt. A butterfly flies too close and she loses her goddamn mind. With all of her other recent eccentricities, I've been writing it off as another example of her anxiety in our new home. 

Until last night.

I've been putting in a lot of overtime, and by the time I logged off my computer for the night, it was nearing midnight. It's a well-lit neighborhood, so I didn’t think twice about taking Maddie for a late-night walk. As we approached the empty lot, the streetlight we were passing flickered and sputtered out the moment we stepped into its warm circle of light. I stopped walking. Maddie was already growling toward the creek, and I followed her gaze. It was like the light from the rest of the neighborhood didn't reach that darkness. Twisted branches in the dim moonlight created the illusion of creatures lurking in the trees. I shivered and kept moving, pace a little brisker.

The next streetlight winked out as we approached. And the one after that. Maddie was snarling wildly at this point, leash taut as she tried to lash out at the looming darkness across the lot. I quickened my pace, practically running, eager to get past the lot and into the neighborhood beyond. The next light blinked out; we were just about at the halfway point. I was considering turning back when the streetlight just ahead of us exploded in a violent shower of sparks, plunging the block into total darkness. I stumbled back and nearly fell on my ass. I managed to regain my balance, but in my flailing I lost hold of Maddie’s leash. She was off like a shot toward the treeline, spittle flying from her jaws. I screamed after her, but she didn’t acknowledge me. She hopped over a low shrub at the tree line, and then she was gone.

I stood for a long moment at the edge of the lot just staring at the trees. I could hear the occasional car whooshing past on the main road, owls hooting softly in the dark. But I couldn’t hear Maddie at all. 

I gulped and called for her again. “Maddie-girl, come back!”

Crickets. I took a step into the tall grass. 

“Maddie, please!”

I waited for a beat, willing her to come tearing out of the trees toward me, but there was still no response. My heart was pounding in my throat. I slowly waded through the waist-high grass to the tree line. Up close, the branches stretched high into the night sky, as dense and imposing as a jungle. 

I stepped through the gap between two trunks, footfalls muted on a bed of rotting, damp leaves. I turned on the flashlight on my phone, but it did little to penetrate the heavy darkness. 

“Maddie?” 

My voice fell flat, muted. It felt like my ears had been stuffed with cotton. Against my better judgment, I moved further into the trees. The air was cool but thick with humidity, heavy with the cloying scent of decay. Every once in a while, a sharp whiff of ozone stung my nostrils and made my eyes water. 

Something was seriously wrong. I had been walking for several minutes. I should have already crossed the creek and reached the brightly lit Costco parking lot on the other side. There was no sign of the creek, though, or the streetlights beyond; there was only damp earth and a seemingly endless sea of thick, gnarled tree trunks stretching into the blackness. The air seemed to hum, a vibrating energy I could feel in my sternum. An oppressive quiet had fallen over everything. There were no birds chirping or squirrels skittering among the branches, no sounds from the babbling water in the creek, no traffic noise from the busy main road that had to be less than a block away. 

Part of me wanted to turn back, but I knew that I would never forgive myself if I left Maddie behind. What if she was hurt? 

I picked my way over the tangled tree roots, moving deeper into the strange woods, calling for Maddie with increasing desperation. At one point I stumbled on the uneven ground and had to brace myself against one of the large trunks. My hand came away sticky, covered in a thick, clear slime. It smelled earthy and sickly sweet, like damp dirt and rotting flesh. Retching, I frantically tried to wipe it off on the leaf-covered ground. 

Once my stomach had settled, I heard a familiar sound coming from the trees ahead. My heart leapt; it was muted and distorted - like it was coming from behind a wall of thick glass - but it was definitely Maddie’s distinctive bark. It was impossible to tell how far away she was, but I sprinted off in her direction. I didn’t know what the fuck was going on. I just knew I was determined to find her and get us both out of there as quickly as possible, even if I had to carry her out howling and snarling.

Branches and leaves whipped my face, leaving stinging marks in their wake. My lungs started to burn. I don’t know how long I ran. Eventually the trees started to thin, and I was hopeful I would emerge back out into the real world, Maddie waiting for me, tail wagging like nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.

Instead, I stumbled into a large, moonlit clearing. Maddie stood in the middle, small body tense and shaking with the force of her barking. Her lips curled back to bare her teeth, fur standing on end from neck to tail. Her eyes were locked on a point on the other side of the clearing, and she was staring intently at a seemingly empty gap in the treeline. 

“Maddie?”

She jerked her head around to look at me, startled; she clearly hadn’t heard me calling for her. Head low and ears back, she turned in a circle, whimpering and pawing at the ground. She looked at me, eyes pleading, and turned back toward the other side of the clearing to continue snarling. 

I followed her gaze again, squinting into the darkness. 

And then I saw it.

Between two twisted tree trunks stood...something. My eyes didn’t want to focus on it; every time I tried, my head would start to throb in time with my heartbeat, and my eyes kept trying to slide away from it. The air around it shimmered, like heat radiating off of sun-baked asphalt. It was tall, and its limbs - too many limbs - twitched out from its long torso, undulating in waves, reaching out and retracting. Its eyes were the worst; deep, black pools that churned and swirled and pulled in the dim moonlight only to snuff it out.

I couldn’t look away from those eyes. The creature loomed in front of me; it grew larger, towering over me so that I had to crane my neck back to continue meeting its gaze, its limbs stretched around and over me. In a numb, distant corner of my mind, it reminded me of a spider preparing to descend on its prey.

Suddenly, I felt a sharp tug around my ankles, and a shrill whine broke my reverie. I looked down and saw Maddie’s teeth clamped around the hem of my jeans, pulling me back with all of her strength. When I looked back up, I realized I had crossed the clearing, and I was standing less than a foot away from the creature’s feet.

I didn’t even know I was going to scream until it was bubbling out of my throat.

That broke the creature out of its stasis. Its head tilted skyward, and it let out an ear-rending shriek that finally pierced the bubble of quiet that sat over the woods. Words can’t describe the sound; the electric fizzle of lightning buzzing underneath the rumbling boom of thunder, overlaid with a discordant layer of every sound made by every creature found in nature (and some that definitely aren’t). 

Still screaming, I grabbed Maddie’s leash from among the muck on the forest floor and started to sprint back in the direction I had come from. Maddie quickly took the lead, and I trusted her to be our guide. Behind us, that buzzing roar continued to echo, and I could hear tree limbs crashing and wooden trunks tearing apart as the creature pursued us. The back of my neck buzzed with static that trickled down my spine, and I had a wild thought that I could feel its breath rustling my hair. 

Before I could fall apart in panic, Maddie pulled me through a thicket of trees and we burst into the empty lot. We didn’t slow down; my foot caught in the weeds and I fell to my knees, hard, and I could feel a rock tear through denim and skin. Maddie jerked at the end of the leash and turned to grab it in her teeth, throwing her whole weight into pulling me to my feet, fierce little yelps encouraging me to keep going. Knees wobbling and threatening to give out again, I somehow managed to stand upright and continue sprinting toward the sidewalk. 

I didn’t stop running until we got back to the apartment. I fumbled my key in the lock, hands shaking. All of the hair on the back of my neck stood up, and my body was still vibrating in frequency with that inhuman shriek. I didn’t dare look behind me. As soon as the lock clicked open, I herded Maddie across the threshold and slammed the door behind us, throwing the deadbolt into place. Maddie was still barking and whining, jumping at my shins with her muddy paws and licking my scraped knee through the tear in my jeans. 

I didn’t wait around to see if that thing would come breaking down my door. Now that I had seen it, I could feel what Maddie had been trying to warn me about for the past several weeks - a low hum that reverberated through the floor, the frequency just slightly off from the buzz of electronics that permeates the modern world. Suddenly it was deafening.

Before I could start to question my sanity, I grabbed my overnight bag and ran through the apartment to collect the necessities. Maddie was shaking by the time we left. I drove to a hotel across the city, as far as I could get from that creek. Maddie hasn’t left my side since we got here. 

I barely slept last night. Every time I started to nod off, I heard the creature’s screams, and sometimes I thought I could still feel that low, subsonic hum shuddering through my ribcage. When I did finally fall asleep, I was right back in the woods, footsteps bringing me closer and closer to that nameless horror reaching for me with its many limbs. Before I could step into its embrace, Maddie woke me up with a soft whine and slobbery kisses, tail thumping the mattress in a comforting rhythm. My only consolation is that she already seems back to her normal, happy self. 

I definitely owe her all of the treats she wants for the rest of her life. 

I definitely appreciate the lesson she’s taught me. It’s easy to forget that all of these bright, shiny developments are built on land that has a history that stretches millennia before we brought in our bulldozers. There's ancient earth springing out of the cracks in the pavement, something old with deep roots, and it doesn't go away just because we built a Costco on top of it.

]]><![CDATA[Room 999: Down the Drain]]>Wed, 04 Mar 2020 02:24:25 GMThttps://www.how-queer.com/fiction/room-999-down-the-drainContent Warnings (spoilers, highlight to view): Child abuse, suicide
I don’t know how long I had been driving down the dark two-lane highway when the neon lights of the hotel’s sign finally broke through the endless fog. The digital display in my rusted-out Honda had been out for 8 months, and my phone’s battery had died about 100 miles back. I hadn’t bothered to pack my car charger in my haste to leave home. 

I pulled off the highway onto the winding gravel drive. There were only a handful of other cars in the cracked, crumbling parking lot. I squinted up through the smeared bug guts on my windshield at the sign: Hotel Non Dormiunt. Vacancy.

The Hotel Non Dormiunt looked like it usually had a lot of vacancies; it wasn’t exactly the type of place you would seek out as a vacation destination. Tucked back off a remote highway in the depths of the Missouri wilderness, it was three sprawling stories of dirty stucco and cloudy windows set into a heavily wooded hillside, capped with weatherworn shaker shingles and a tattered, threadbare awning that fluttered weakly in the damp breeze. 

After spending hours in my rattling, piece-of-shit car, it looked like a fucking sanctuary. 

My joints were stiff, popping and creaking like a dying campfire when I climbed out into the frigid, misty night air. It took me a few tries to open the trunk to get my things. The lock stuck fast thanks to the cold and a years-old dent just below the keyhole that my husband and I had never gotten around to fixing. 

A bell jangled discordantly above my head when I entered the hotel. I got as far as the welcome mat before I froze.

From the looks of the exterior, I'd been expecting something on par with a Best Western, all outdated, bargain-bin furnishings and mass-produced pastel wall art. 

You know what they say about judging a book by its cover.

The hotel’s decor spoke of old-world luxury in tones of dark, gleaming wood and black damask wallpaper. Right across from the front door stood a long, mahogany welcome desk, polished to a high sheen and flanked by two winding staircases that led to a second floor landing. In front of the desk, a group of plush, burgundy chaise lounges and wingback chairs were arranged in a cozy seating area. To my right stood a set of double doors labeled “Bar & Lounge,” to my left, glass doors leading to a pool and sauna. A glittering crystal chandelier the size of my car hung from the 2-story ceiling in the center of the room.

I looked down at my outfit for the first time in hours, self-conscious. I was wearing flannel pajama bottoms, frayed badly at the hem, and an old, stained hooded sweatshirt from my high school cheer team. I hadn’t bothered putting on a bra, and my once-white Keds were now a dirty beige thanks to years of use. I clutched reflexively at the wallet in my hoodie pocket. Surely I could afford just one night.

I approached the front desk. The lobby was eerily quiet. A call bell sat on the counter next to a sign written in barely legible cursive: “Back in 8 minutes.” How long had I been standing there, gaping? Unsure, I tapped the call bell and waited. 

And waited. 

I checked my watch again. 

“Hello?”

My voice croaked after several hours of disuse, echoing in the expansive lobby. No response.

I leaned over the counter to see if there were any clues about the absentee reception clerk. The overwhelming smell of damp wood invaded my nostrils, followed by an acrid stench that reminded me of deviled eggs left out to rot in the sun. I reared back, gagging...

...and stumbled straight into a small, stout figure behind me. I screamed, whirling around to face a boy who could have been no older than 14. He was wearing an old-fashioned bell-boy uniform. His round face flushed scarlet and he jumped back.

“Fuc- shit- I mean.” I laughed breathlessly. “Sorry, kid. You just scared me.”

The bell-boy quirked a small, closed-mouth smile. He pointed to the backpack slung over my shoulder and raised an eyebrow, one hand reached out expectantly.

“Oh, um, thanks!” I smiled apologetically and waved at the front desk. “But I still need to check in.”

He squinted at the sign on the counter and rolled his eyes. He turned to me and held up a single index finger in the universal gesture for “one moment.” He stepped through the gate into the reception area and ducked behind a heavy oak door behind the desk, presumably leading to an office or break room. I don’t know how I hadn’t noticed it before; it was heavy oak, stained a glossy black, with a bright gold handle. A minute or so later, he emerged in a rush, scowling over his shoulder into a room that appeared, to me, unlit and unoccupied. When he turned to face me, his frown had melted into a charming customer service smile. He held up a brass key with a grand flourish. His movements were fluid and exaggerated, like a mime. It suddenly struck me that he hadn't spoken to me this entire time, and I wondered, guiltily, if he would have been more comfortable if I had paid attention during the one sign language class I took in college.

He broke my reverie by plunking a large, leather-bound ledger down on the counter in front of me. He opened it to the most recent page of the hotel’s registry and nudged a fountain pen toward me that appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

“O-kay. Right.” I scanned the page, not sure what I was looking for. I’d never been to a hotel that used one of these. “So, where do I sign?” Before he could answer, another thought occurred to me. “Oh! And how much for the night?”

He rolled his eyes and pointed to the next available blank line in the registry: Room 999. To the right, in the margins, “$99/night.” 

That...didn’t make any sense.

“Doesn’t this place only have three floors?”

The bell-boy tilted his head at me quizzically. He tapped the same line in the ledger very slowly and emphatically, as if I were very, very dumb. With his other hand, he gestured over his shoulder at an elevator next to the bar entrance that I would swear was not there 10 minutes before. The semicircle of numbered floor lights above the metal doors went all the way to 20.

How… 

I blinked once, hard. I really needed a good night’s sleep.

“Right, been a long day.” Not wanting to waste any more of the kid’s time, I signed my name on the line for Room 999. 

***

Room 999 was modest for a hotel of the Non Dormiunt’s caliber, but it was way nicer than any place I’d ever stayed before. A large king bed took up most of the room, covered in a mountain of pillows and a deep red duvet. There was no overhead lighting, just a floor lamp in the corner, and the heavy curtains were drawn. The air was oddly humid; it smelled damp and earthy. The overall impression was dark and claustrophobic. Ominous.

I shook the feeling off. I was on edge, that was all. I hadn’t been lying to the bell-boy: it had been a long day.  

I plugged in my phone. After getting a few seconds of juice, my lock screen lit up. I bit back a sob. God, I was so sick of crying. 

It was a picture of Abigail and Beth, grinning up at me with twin looks of adoration. My little girls. 

The feeling had hit me the previous evening while I was washing Abby’s hair, soft, brown curls slipping smoothly through my fingers. Beth was crying, baby fists clenched and face scrunched and red, because Abby had thrown a toy Fisher Price boat at her head. 

“Please, Abby, be nice to your sister.” 

God, had I always sounded so goddamn tired? 

“I don’ wanna share a bath anymore! Sharing is for babies!” Abby folded her arms across her thin chest, her frown the spitting image of her father’s. “I’m five.”

Beth burbled an angry, unhappy wail and thumped Abby in the chest with both fists, indignant in a way only a 14-month-old can manage.

Awesome. Now they were both crying. 

I could feel the tears building behind my own eyes. The bruise that circled my upper arm, a perfect, black-and-purple negative of Peter’s handprint, pulsed angrily. 

And the feeling hit me like a freight train: I couldn’t do this anymore.

I finished their bath on autopilot. I tucked both girls in - Abby in her tiny princess bed on one side of the room, Beth in her pastel pink crib on the other - and I kissed them each on the forehead. I pressed my nose to their hair and inhaled deeply, committing the scent of baby shampoo and the feel of their warm, soft skin to my memory.

Then I ran. I got the hell out of that house and didn’t look back, before my bastard husband could wake up and drag me back to hell by my ponytail.

Sitting in room 999, I let the guilt crash over me in waves. I had told myself that I was worthless to them. That they would be better off without me. Peter would be happier, and he would treat them well, and they would get along just fine. But the lies were less convincing their little faces smiling up at me from my phone. I buried my face in my hands and fought the urge to scream.

I took several long, deep breaths and waited for my heart rate to slow. Dwelling on the past was pointless. I had made the decision to leave, and now I had to decide what happened next. No, I got to decide what happened next, for the first time in years. 

I came up with a plan.  I couldn’t go back - completely out of the question - but that didn’t mean I couldn’t find a way to keep them safe. That night, I would pop a Xanax and get a good night’s sleep. In the morning, I would call my best friend, Callie, the girls' godmother. Best friends was a horrible understatement for the two of us, but I had always been too afraid to call us what we were. That’s how I'd ended up married to Peter in the first place. Callie and I had been on again, off again since high school, sometimes "on" even after Peter and I were married. I didn’t deserve her, but she somehow cared about me anyway. I already had a series of texts from her, furious and despondent. Peter must have called her looking for me. I only read the first one: Fucking Christ, Brooke, what the fuck did you do?!

She was right to be mad at me, of course. I was mad at me. But I knew she loved the girls. I would ask her to check on them while I was gone. She would make sure they were safe.

Some of the weight on my chest lifted. Things could still turn out okay. I would drive until I found a nice, small town. I’d settle down there, find a job, and get my head right. When I had the money, I would file for a divorce and a restraining order, and I could bring the girls out to live with me. I could be the mother they had always deserved. Callie could come too, and I would become the woman she deserved as well.

But that was all business for the morning. One step at a time, I told myself. 

First step: a shower. 

***

The bathroom was more modern than the rest of the hotel. A large walk-in shower, tiled in black marble, took up one whole wall. I turned the water just this side of scalding and stepped under the rainfall showerhead. I zoned out under the warm spray and watched the water slowly spiral down the drain, carrying the worries of the day with it. For the first time that night, I was warm, and I felt like things would be alright. 

Bit by bit, a sound reached me over the gentle patter of the water falling against the tile. At first I dismissed it as senseless background noise: the sound of a neighboring TV, or chatter from one of the bathrooms above or below me. Slowly, it coalesced into something familiar. It was someone crying. 

No, not just someone. A baby. 

Once I realized what it was, it seemed to get louder. My heart clenched in my chest. These weren't the normal cries of a baby needing a bottle or a diaper change or her mama’s attention; this child was in distress, a hitching, panicked cadence. What really sent chills up my spine, though, was the complete lack of response. From what I could hear, no adult attempted to soothe the infant or address the source of their suffering. I focused, trying to pinpoint where it was coming from.

It was coming up through the drain.

It felt silly to yell at a crying baby through a shower floor, but I wasn’t sure what else to do.

"Hello, are you okay?"

There was no response. The baby continued to shriek in despair, thin voice cracking around the force of its cries. I crouched down on the shower floor and positioned my mouth directly over the drain.

"Is everything okay? Does somebody down there need help?"

The crying stopped abruptly. I strained, ear tilted downward. The water was starting to run cold, and I shivered on the wet tile. A timid voice broke the silence.

"Hello?" A sniffle. A new voice that clearly belonged to a very young child, barely out of toddler-hood. It reminded me of my Abigail. "You can hear us?"

The child's voice was wavering and thick with unshed tears. Motherly concern swelled in my chest. I swallowed around a lump in my throat, determined to keep my voice even and calm.

“I can hear you. I’m here. Do you need help?”

Another sniffle. The baby moaned pitifully.

“I don’...I don’ know. I don’ know where we are.” The voice broke off with a hitch. “Can you find our mom?”

“Okay, I’ll find you. It’s going to be okay.” I didn’t know if that was true, but even if I couldn’t find their mom, surely somebody here would be able to help them. At least they could call the authorities. I switched off the shower and fumbled a towel off the rack before leaning back over the drain. “Do you know which room you’re staying in?”

“Room? There’s no...no room.” 

I paused. “You’re not in a hotel room?”

“I don’ th-think so? I never been to a hotel. Last I ‘member we was taking a bath.” The child hiccuped. The baby let out a thready, high-pitched wail, and the child shushed them gently. “An' now it’s dark, an’ wet, an-an’ cold, an’ we’re all alone.”

Their voices were so clear, I had assumed they were just in the room below me on the 8th floor. But that description sounded nothing like the bathroom I was in with its clean, white walls and fluorescent overhead lights. It didn’t sound like they even remembered arriving at the Hotel Non Dormiunt at all. Maybe somebody had kidnapped them? Stashed them in the hotel somewhere? It was out of the way, off a remote highway - a perfect pit stop for human traffickers. A thought occurred to me, then. 

“What about a basement? Does it look like a basement?” 

The sound could be travelling up the drain pipes from the main stack.

“I gu-guess so. I don’ like the basement. 'S scary.” The child started crying again. “Are you going to find us? ‘S so cold.”

“I will, I’ll find you,” I promised. “I’m walking away now so I can go get help, but I am looking for you, and you’ll be okay.”

“K.” Another sniffle and a warbled wail from the infant. “Please hurry.”

I toweled off and dressed as quickly as I could. I planned to call down to the front desk for help, maybe see if they could gather a search party. When I lifted the room phone off the receiver, though, the line was dead. 

Fucking figures.

I grabbed my cell phone and made a beeline for the rickety old elevator, hopping on one foot while I tried to cram the other into my shoe. I jammed my finger on the button for the lobby repeatedly, as if that would make the elevator move faster. I unlocked my phone, ready to call the cops if the front desk clerk was still AWOL.

No service.

Okay, don’t panic. You’re in the elevator. Try again in the lobby.

After what felt like years, the metal doors finally slid open on the first floor. The lobby was still completely dead, and that stupid sign still sat on the front desk. Eight minutes my ass. The bell-boy was nowhere in sight, and somehow I still had no service on my piece of shit phone.

"Sonofabitch." 

I pushed a hand through my wet, tangled hair and tried to think. I could start pounding on doors, but the night was still pitch-dark, and I didn't think that would go over well with the other road-weary patrons. Besides, if the kids had been snatched, I didn't want to alert the assholes who did it that somebody was onto them. I stepped back into the elevator, resolving to check out the basement level myself, but the lowest number was the “L” for the lobby.

I was beginning to grow frantic, pacing the first floor corridors looking for a service elevator or set of stairs. There was nothing but guest rooms. Giving up on my earlier reticence, I started pounding on doors, yelling for help. I was sure that at least one person would respond to my desperate pleas and join in the search, or at least let me use their phone. But nobody made a peep. Nobody answered the door, nobody yelled back at me, even if it was just to complain about all the noise. My panic began to morph into a grave sense of unease. 

Surely this whole place couldn’t be empty, as huge as it was. Where was everyone? 

I eventually circled back to the lobby, out of breath and hoarse from screaming. My eyes landed on that imposing, black door behind the reception counter. Nobody had come out to investigate all the noise that I was making, but that didn’t mean nobody was in there. The gate leading back into the reception area was unlocked, wide open. 

I remembered the musty, thick odor that had assaulted my senses earlier. My limbs resisted as I started to move toward the door, some deep instinct screaming at me that I really, really didn’t want to know what lived back there. Another far more powerful instinct, however, remembered those pitiful cries from the drain. I straightened, steeled myself, pinched my nose shut, and marched past the gate right up to the door. I pounded on it, hard.

“Hello? There are some kids who need our help.”

Still nothing. I banged on the door with both hands until my palms were stinging.

“Listen, fuckos. I’m sorry to make you do your goddamn job, but I think they’re in danger.”

Oppressive, heavy silence. I reached down to rattle the doorknob, expecting it to be locked.

“Don’t ignore-”

The doorknob turned, and the door swung open, revealing a concrete staircase leading down into darkness. A single, bare lightbulb swung back and forth at the bottom. I stood at the top for a long moment, just staring. 

“Don’t make me come down there!”

My voice wavered and echoed off the cement walls. When I still got no response, I started to cautiously pick my way down the stairs, every nerve on high alert. I was almost to the bottom when a figure stepped directly into the swinging circle of light. I jumped back a step and nearly fell on my ass.

“Heavens, dearie, what’s the meaning of all of this noise?”

She was a maid, or so I assumed, given her traditional black dress and white pinafore and the cartoonishly large feather duster in her hand. Her age was hard to place - older than the bell-boy but younger than me, for sure - and she might have been pretty were her face not twisted in sour disapproval. I gaped at her, words failing me.

She sighed and fluttered the feather duster at me in a shooing motion. “Pop back to your room, now. Everything is fine down here.”

Anger sparked behind my sternum, and the fire gave me back my voice. 

“Everything is not fucking fine. There are children in danger!”

The maid tutted at me - “Such language!” - and reached out to grasp my shoulders in a deceptively strong grip, preparing to steer me back up the stairs. I wrenched away and shoved past her, long past caring about manners. My life was terrible, and this place was terrible, and I was not going to fail these kids like I’d failed my own. 

“I’m not leaving until I find them!”

The maid’s expression turned hard. “Now, now, dearie. Don’t make me go get Management.”

A chill rolled over me at that; the air had gone thick, and her voice seemed to drop an octave on that last word. My feigned bravado was quickly fizzling. I opened my mouth to try a softer, more polite approach when a familiar sound caught my ears.

“Mommy? Mommy please come find us!”

“I hear you!” I shouted. I gave the maid a smug, defiant look and, ignoring her yelp of protest, turned to jog toward the small voice. “I’m here!”

The basement was nothing but one long concrete corridor, broken up intermittently by open doorways. I glanced into a few as I ran past, looking for the source of the voice. There was a maid in each one, folding sheets or ironing laundry or preparing room service trays. They each turned to look as I passed, scowling. There was something off about them, but I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time. There was no time to puzzle it out. I was getting close, I could feel it.

Several yards down the corridor I stumbled across a large boiler room where the voices were the loudest. I looked at the ceiling and noticed that all of the plumbing stacks seemed to converge there. It had to be the place.

I started winding my way around ductwork and machinery, keeping an eye out for small figures in chains or cages. “Keep talking, I think I’m almost there!”

“Yes! Mommy, we see you! You found us!”

I stopped dead. Mommy? It couldn’t be. 

“A..Abigail?”

The child choked out a half-laugh, half-sob. “Of course, Mommy! I knew you’d find us!”

My heart pounded against my sternum. This wasn’t possible. How could my children have gotten here? Unless...had Peter somehow found me already? Caught up to me, even all the way out here? I swallowed convulsively, throat clicking.

“I don’t...I don’t see you, baby. Where are you?”

“Down here, Mommy!”

Abigail giggled. Beth - the baby must be Beth - had stopped crying, and she cooed sweetly. My eyes darted around the floor, searching. And then I saw it.

Thin, dirty fingers poking up through the grate covering a floor drain. A child’s fingers.

I fell to my knees and scrambled over to the drain in a crawl. It was complete, utter nonsense, but looking down, I could see my children plain as day. Abigail stood there in her oversized Care Bear t-shirt holding her baby sister on her hip with a wide grin. They were both covered in mud and a viscous, slimy substance. Abigail’s wet hair was plastered to her forehead. Her eyes and teeth gleamed in the dark. 

Hand trembling, I touched my fingertips to hers. “How did you get down there, sweetheart?” I cast about for something I could use to pry off the grate, but it was screwed into the floor. “I’ll get you out!”

Abigail jutted her lower lip out and withdrew her hand. “You put us here, Mommy.”

I stopped in my search for a crowbar or screwdriver. “I...what? No, baby, I didn’t do this.”

Beth was pouting now too, and they were both looking at me with dark, accusing eyes. “You did, though, Mommy. You left us in the bath, and we fell down here.”

My memory flashed to the girls screaming and hitting each other in the tub. I remembered the exhaustion that had washed over me. The despair.

My stomach turned to ice.

“I...I would never leave you,” I lied. “I’m gonna get you out, okay? You’re going to be okay.”

I started scrabbling at the drain with my bare hands, fingernails splintering against the rusted metal.

“But Mommy, you did leave us.” Abigail’s tinkling giggle went deep, distorted at the end. “You left us for good, remember?”

It was like a fog lifted from my brain. I had a sudden memory, clear as day, of the previous night’s bathtime. Of dunking first Abby, then Beth, to rinse the shampoo from their hair. Of holding their little heads under the water until they were blessedly, finally quiet. Tucking their damp little bodies into bed. They looked so peaceful; the first time in ages they had gone down for me so easily. 

Then I remembered the weight of a revolver in my hand. I was standing in front of my worthless husband, asleep in his La-Z-Boy with a PBR clutched loosely in the limp circle of his fist, knuckles scabbed over from where he’d broken them across my jaw the day before.

Bang.

I remembered walking out to the garage, starting the car, and driving to the lake outside of town. My palm was growing sweaty around the revolver’s wooden grip. I sat there for hours and watched the sun start to rise over the placid water, until the sky was lilac and bruised with the first light of dawn. I pressed the barrel to my temple. 

Bang.

Fucking Christ, Brooke, what the fuck did you do?!

No. No no nonono.

That’s not what happened.

I finished the girls’ bath. I remember that. I put them to bed. My husband was drunk and passed out on the recliner, but I snuck past him. I got in the car and left. I hit the highway and didn’t look back.

I didn’t kill them. I couldn’t have. I couldn’t be here, in this hotel, if I killed them. 

If I killed myself. 

I pressed the pads of two fingers to my temple. It felt wet, and the skin seemed to pulse under my fingers, a headache throbbing in time with my heartbeat. I couldn’t breathe.

A warm hand closed over my shoulder. Through teary eyes, I looked up into the solemn face of the bell-boy. He was smiling at me, eyes soft, sad but kind. Those eyes looked ancient in his baby face. He helped me to my feet and handed me a checkered, red handkerchief to dry my eyes.

My children were still crying beneath the grate on the concrete floor. I couldn’t bring myself to look at them again. Were they even real? Had I gone crazy? The bell-boy didn’t seem to notice them. He grasped my elbow gently and pulled me back into the hall. I let him lead me away.

The maids stood in every doorway between the utility room and the elevator, identical faces turning to watch us pass. That’s what had unnerved me before, but I barely noticed it now. Unlike the bell-boy, their collective gaze was furious, faces twisted in murderous disgust. Their mouths were moving in unison, chanting, but I couldn’t make out the words. My children’s cries were deafening.

“Mommy! Mommy! Mommy, come back! Don’t you dare leave us again!”

They echoed through the corridor behind us. I could still hear them even as the elevator doors closed.

The bell-boy pressed a button marked “out-of-order.” Floor 17. 

It’s quiet on Floor 17, a warbly, inhuman voice slithered in my ear. Management. It was a mechanical, rattling voice, croaking along with the rusty elevator gears, barely audible beneath the shrill cries of my girls. You’ll like it there. 

I felt something drip down the side of my face, a steady stream from my hairline, thick and warm.

We arrived at our destination. The bell-boy steered me out of the elevator into the unlit maw of the 17th floor, black as the abyss. He had to use a flashlight to guide us. He produced a key and let me into room 1705. He ran a bath for me, even though I didn’t ask him to. I explored the room, fingertips running over the warped, moldy wallpaper in the dark. The smell of damp earth was stronger in here. The windows were covered in dark shades. Underneath, the glass was painted over with thick, black tar. No light can enter this place.

When the water shut off, I silently undressed in the low light from the bell-boy’s flashlight, glowing softly from under the bathroom door. He helped me into the tub, eyes averted respectfully. When I opened my eyes, it was dark once more, and he was gone.

That’s where I am now. The 17th floor is quiet. No muffled voices come from the floors above or below. There are no birds chirping outside, no car noise from the highway. I can’t hear anything at all. 

All of the bulbs are burnt out, and I can barely make out the shape of my hand in front of my face. The dark is heavy, but comforting. Like a weighted blanket. Or the soft, loose sod over a fresh grave.

The tub is still warm even though I must have been here for hours. Every once in a while, I slide completely under the water, just so I don’t even have to hear myself breathe. It’s peaceful at the bottom. No voices from the drain.

I think I’ll stay awhile.

]]><![CDATA[The Sisters of House Omega]]>Mon, 23 Sep 2019 03:04:41 GMThttps://www.how-queer.com/fiction/the-sisters-of-house-omegaContent Warnings: Suicide mention, implied past rape/sexual assault (non-graphic)

I was never the type to join a sorority. My twin sister, Chel, begged me to rush with her the summer before our freshman year approached, but I think she knew deep-down I was a lost cause. I was a band geek in high school, and a band geek I intended to remain.

Don't get me wrong - this isn't some "not like other girls" bullshit. I was happy for Chel. I even got trashed on celebratory wine coolers with her when she pledged her sorority. We just had different interests. As long as she was happy, that’s all that mattered, and I know she felt the same about me.

How did I miss that she was so deeply unhappy?
​
She threw herself off the bell tower in the center of campus less than 3 weeks before the end of the spring semester. I hadn’t seen her in a couple of days; I was holed up at the library pulling double all-nighters to finish my final paper for Greek and Roman Mythology. I woke up in the early afternoon on a Sunday to 10 missed calls from mom and a text from Chel. 

love u forever Lou. i’m so sorry.

2:55 a.m. Witnesses say she jumped at 3:02.

I skipped finals, took incompletes in all of my classes, and headed home to be with my mom. Alex, our best friend from high school, offered to bail on the rest of the semester too, but I didn’t want him to lose his scholarship. Still, he made the 2-hour drive home every weekend to hang with me. We didn't talk much; it still hurt too much to remember the good times, and I didn't care much about the present. But it was better than drinking alone, and Alex was generous with sharing his weed.

My mom insisted I get back into the swing of things this Fall. I decided just to do a half-time course load, mostly focused on finishing up my classes from last semester. I moved into a solo room in the dorms that’s more the size of a closet than a real livable space. I didn’t mind being alone. I kind of preferred it that way.

Alex, though, thought that the solitude was bad for me. Or at least that’s what he claimed when he dragged me along to a Greek party last weekend. Chel was popular among the guys in his fraternity, he said, and they’d all been asking about me. Worried. I really didn’t want to go, but Alex wouldn’t let up.

“It’s what Michelle would want, Louise.” 

Asshole. Even if he was right.

That’s how I found myself last Saturday in the passenger seat of Alex’s BMW, driving out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. I quickly realized I had no idea where the hell we were or where we were headed. I’d never gone to a frat party with Chel - navigating a sea of sweaty dudes who smell like PBR isn’t my ideal night out - but I was pretty sure most frat houses weren’t 45 minutes from campus, tucked away off a dirt road that didn’t even have a name on Google Maps.

I picked at a fraying thread on the hem of my sweater, one of Chel’s. It was bright green and haphazardly cropped at the waist in a homemade chop job. It wasn’t my style at all, and I never would have worn it before Chel...before she was gone. But that night, wearing it gave me confidence, like she was there with me.

“So....what’s the deal with this party anyway? Or are you driving me out to the middle of nowhere to murder me?” 

Alex rolled his eyes and fished a piece of black cardstock out of the mess of napkins on his center console. The paper was heavy, expensive, with gold-embossed letters glittering in a scrolling font:

You Are Cordially Invited
The Sisters of House Omega welcome you to our Fall semester Culling.
Attendance is mandatory.
Only the true of heart will remain until dawn.
Will that be you, Alex?

“Did all the guys in the house get one of these?” I turned the paper over, where an address and time was listed. County Road 5. Nine o'clock.

“Yeah, ‘bout a week ago? We’re still trying to figure out who’s hosting.” 

“It’s not this Omega sorority?”

Alex laughed at me, not unkindly. “There’s no such thing, Louise.”

I frowned. A party in the middle of nowhere, hosted by nobody? I was already starting to regret abandoning my resolve to live the semester as a hermit.

“None of this is creeping you out? What does it mean by ‘Culling,’ anyway?” 

“Ah, it’s just for dramatics. See who can stick it out all night, ya know? Maybe there’ll be a prize. And you know what?” He grinned and slapped me on the thigh. I slapped him back. “We’re not gonna pussy out. We’ll be the winners, last ones standing, just like old times. You with me?”

“I turn into a pumpkin after 2.”

“I’m serious, Lou.”

“So am I, Alexander.” He knew I hated being called Lou. Chel always called me Lou. “Besides, are they even going to let me in? I didn’t get one of these.” I shook the invitation in his face. 

I was starting to have a really bad feeling. If I’d known about all this weirdness beforehand, I would’ve already been in bed. Tossing and turning on my lumpy twin mattress, brainstorming ways to beg Professor Dickson for yet another extension on my first paper, sounded better than stumbling into the plot of Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

“C’mon, Louise, if it’s lame, we’ll bail. And they’ll definitely let you in. I mean, you look just like her, they’ll -”

“Feel sorry for me?”

I took grim satisfaction seeing the smile slip off his face. 

“No, absolutely not.” His lips pulled down into a frown and I looked away. “Louise,” his large hand grasped my fingers gently. His voice had gone soft.  “I just mean that everybody loved Chel, and they’ll love you too. Just like she did.” 

I looked out the window and blinked hard once, twice, before clearing my throat. 

“Fine. But the second I’m ready to leave, we’re leaving, prize be damned.”

Alex squeezed my hand and let go. “Deal.”

We continued the drive in silence. Alex drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and I scanned the empty fields on the side of the road. We’d pulled off on the county road over 10 minutes ago; we’d almost missed the turn-off, which was only marked by a small, weathered wood sign, embossed with a gold Omega symbol. There was still no sign of a party.

“Alex…”

Alex shifted in the driver’s seat and hunched over the steering wheel, squinting into the darkness.

“Yeah...it’s uh...I feel like we should have seen it by now.”

He laughed, high-pitched and thready. I continued unraveling the loose thread on the hem of Chel’s sweater.

The BMW crested a large hill, and I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding. A large, white farmhouse stood in the valley below us, a fleet of Land Rovers and Mercedes parked haphazardly in the grass out front.  Alex laughed - much more genuinely, this time - and patted my knee as he parked next to a Lexus.

“Relax, it’s gonna be fun.”

I mustered up a smile but didn’t say anything. Alex grinned and hopped out of the car. I peered up at the house. The facade was bright and cheery, freshly painted with bright blue shutters flanking the windows, the front door a bubbly yellow. The interior, glimpsed through the open blinds, looked warm and inviting, and I could already feel the bass beat of a shitty pop song vibrating softly in my chest. It all looked pretty innocuous. Maybe I could have a good time. For Alex. 

For Chel.

The loud clunk of the passenger door opening startled me. Alex arched his eyebrow, forearm braced on the roof of the car.

“Are you coming, or were you planning to wait in the car all night?”

I rolled my eyes and unbuckled. I socked him on the arm as I climbed out of the car.

“Let’s have some fun or whatever.”

I didn’t need to worry about getting in the door. There was nobody checking invitations. We were greeted by a loud cheer of “Alex!” when we entered the living room, the party well underway.

A few guys ran up, thumping Alex on the back and nodding my way in polite acknowledgement. I was suddenly enveloped in a bear hug by a man whose name I couldn’t remember, overwhelmed by a cloud of Axe and sour beer-breath.

“We’re so glad you could make it, Lou. We miss Chel so much.”

A chorus of drunk voices chimed in, booming in the small space of the foyer.

“CHEL!”

Sour-breath let me go to pump his fist in the air, and the boys all started chanting Chel’s name. I couldn’t decide whether I was endeared or disgusted. Alex flushed and elbowed one of his brothers in the ribs. I was about to give him shit when another, much more slender arm wrapped around my shoulders.

“Oh, Louise! I didn’t know you were going to be here.” 

Anna, the president of Chel’s sorority, had to crouch down to hug me. Her words were slurred, her movements languid and clumsy, but her big brown eyes were clear and focused when she pulled back. Anna had always liked Chel, took her under her wing when she first started pledging, and she’d always made me feel welcome in the house. So it was out of the ordinary that she looked concerned, rather than pleased, to see me.

“Uh...yeah. Alex said it would be cool?” I glared in Alex’s direction. He just shrugged.

Anna’s brow furrowed, but before she could answer, another voice chimed in, rich and melodic.

“Oh? I didn’t realize this was Alex’s party.”

Anna froze, and her eyes widened. Slowly, she turned to face three of the most beautiful women I had ever seen in my entire life. Despite their striking appearance, I don’t know that I could describe any of them now; it’s all kind of fuzzy in my memory, but I do know that they were supermodel tall, willowy, with bright eyes that seemed to stare right through you. One of the women - sparkling green eyes boring into mine - spoke again in the same resonant tone.

“Anna? Who’s your party-crasher friend?”

She smiled when she said it, and her tone betrayed no ill will, but I still shrank back behind Anna instinctually. I looked around again for Alex, but he had wandered off already. That set off distant alarm bells in my head, after all his promises that we would stick together, but I couldn’t focus on anything but the woman in front of me. Anna grabbed my hand and squeezed it tightly.

“Oh, uh...this is, you remember Chel, the girl I told you about? This is her sister, Louise, and...well, I  think Alex just thought...”

Another of the three women, grey eyes this time, stepped around Anna in one smooth motion, interrupting her rambling. She grabbed my hand out of Anna’s and clasped it between both of her own. Her skin was cool, almost cold, but her grip was soft. I thought I was just rocking a stupid crush at the time, but the world seemed to tilt off center when she bent down to meet me at eye-level, voice whisper-soft yet strong enough to carry over the house music thumping through the floorboards.

“Darling, I’m so sorry about your sister, but I’m really not sure this party is your scene.”

Anna looked downright panicked by this point, falling all over herself to apologize to the trio. I scanned the crowd and, aside from Alex and a couple of his fraternity brothers, I only saw one other person at the party who looked familiar, a girl from Chel and Anna’s sorority - Beth? Stacy? - who I knew almost nothing about. Chel had never introduced me to her. A distant part of me registered that I should be embarrassed, or, that if Anna was panicking, maybe I should be too. Instead, I felt a strange sense of calm, content to follow wherever that voice might lead me.

“Of course, I didn’t mean to cause any trouble…”

The third woman stepped forward and rested a graceful hand lightly on my shoulder. Bright blue eyes danced kindly. I couldn’t look away.

“No trouble at all, sweetheart, just let me walk you to your car.”

Anna looked on helplessly as the two women guided me slowly to the door. A tiny splinter of logic somehow managed to pierce the haze that had settled over my brain.

“I don’t have a car. Alex drove me.”

Grey-eyes and blue-eyes looked at each other for a few minutes, seeming to have a silent conversation. Blue-eyes finally sighed and turned back to me. 

“Well then, I guess there’s nothing for it. Want to keep me company in the kitchen?”

I could feel the dopey grin splitting my face, but I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I nodded a bit too enthusiastically to be cool. Blue-eyes laughed; it sounded like bells. My mind sunk deeper into the fog.

It didn’t even cross my mind to go find Alex. I forgot about Anna’s frantic worry from just moments before. I let blue-eyes take my hand and lead me further into the house. I felt safe while I was with her. A peace I hadn’t felt since Chel’s death washed over me.

The next day, as the memories came back to me in flashes, I would realize how... off everything was. The whole house had this shimmery glow about it, like something out of a dream.  Alex’s fraternity brothers and the handful of girls from Chel’s sorority drank from seemingly bottomless red Solo cups and danced feverishly in the living room, pressed tightly together in a writhing mass; the rest of the partygoers did shot after shot in the kitchen, a never ending supply of vodka and tequila flowing freely, poured generously by the mysterious Sisters of House Omega. The Sisters themselves, each as stunningly gorgeous as the last, stood around the party’s periphery, laughing easily at the revelry without actually partaking in any of it themselves. All the while, those piercing eyes swept over the party with a calculated, unsettling intensity. 

Hindsight, of course, is 20/20. At the time, I was too swept up myself, too enraptured by ocean blue eyes, to notice anything odd.

I wish I could remember her name. Blue-eyes. In spite of everything that happened, I still find myself yearning to know more about her. She pulled me into a cozy bench seat in the corner of the kitchen, away from the worst of the noise. She tucked a stray hair behind my ear with long, graceful fingers, and the whole world fell away. She asked me to tell her all about myself. So I did.

I poured my heart out. I told her about what it was like coming out in high school in a small town in the Midwest, and how supportive Chel always was, even when Alex wigged out and didn’t talk to me for a month. I told her about my dreams of becoming a songwriter and making a break for the coast, about how that dream died with Chel because I couldn’t imagine anybody else singing my songs but her. I told her about all of my hopes and my desires, about my guilt at moving on to live a life that Chel and I had always planned to live together. I told her about my deepest fear: that I don’t know who I am without my twin sister, my other half. That maybe without Chel, I’m nothing at all. 

Looking back on it, I can’t remember what blue-eyes actually said to me throughout all of this. She certainly didn’t give away anything about herself, who she was, where she came from - not even her name. But I remember this overwhelming sense of comfort, of her telling me, maybe not in so many words, that I was somebody; I was important, I mattered. Even though she didn’t - couldn’t have - known me, somehow she did, and she loved me. She held me as I laughed and cried, and it felt like she was laughing and crying with me, feeling everything I felt just as deeply. 

The next part gets even fuzzier. At some point, blue-eyes took my hand and invited me upstairs. Usually this is the part where I lose my cool, especially with a woman so gut-wrenchingly beautiful, but the nerves never came. I felt like I was floating all the way up the stairs, to her room, to the edge of her twin bed. When she finally kissed me and pressed me back into soft sheets, galaxies exploded behind my closed eyes.

It didn’t go any farther than that, but it was somehow the most intimate experience of my life. I have no idea how long we stayed there, arms around each other, lips sliding together softly, sweetly. At some point, she pulled away to give me another of those deep, searching looks.. She opened her mouth as if to speak when, somewhere in the house, a clock started to chime midnight. 

Her head snapped toward the door. She ducked her head and sighed.

“Wait here, Lou.”

I nodded; it wasn’t a question. There was nowhere else I wanted to be. With one last press of her lips to mine, she was gone.

I flopped back onto the bed, idly wondering how long she would be gone and what we might get up to when she got back. Before I could follow that train of thought too far, a high-pitched, harsh shriek rent the night, painfully loud even over the pounding baseline from downstairs. More inhuman, screeching voices soon joined in.

I shot up in bed just as the dance music cut out with the painfully grating sound of feedback from the speakers. There was a series of terrible, thundering crashes, and a chorus of panicked screams sounded from the partygoers below.

The peaceful veil clouding my thoughts lifted in an instant. It finally caught up to me how wrong the situation was. I didn’t even really remember coming upstairs, and I hadn’t seen Alex in hours…

Shit, Alex is down there.

I ran to the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Distantly, I thought I could hear Alex screaming my name, scared and in pain, and I started slamming my body into the door, calling out for him until my voice was shredded. I looked around frantically for my phone, but it wasn’t anywhere in the room. I couldn’t remember where I had left it. Footsteps pounded down the hallway outside, a terrified scream coming closer, abruptly silenced when something slammed into the other side of the bedroom door with a wet, heavy thud. I stumbled back until my knees hit the edge of the bed. 

I sobbed and made a break for the windows instead. I was just about to take my chances jumping from the second story when a small TV in the corner of the room switched on, static buzzing at the highest volume. Half-wild, I thought briefly of chucking the whole TV through the windowpane before the blurred pixels started to resolve into a familiar face.

“No…”

There on the TV, impossibly, was Chel. My escape plan was quickly abandoned. I reached out to the screen with shaking fingers, as though I could reach through the cold glass and touch her face. 

The scene on the TV started to play. I couldn’t look away.

Chel was at a party in what I recognized as the basement of Alex’s fraternity house. She was trashed, drink sloshing over the rim of her cup onto her sweater. The sweater I was wearing that night. Alex stepped into frame, laughing, and poured more liquor into her cup.

“Easy, Chel, you’re going to lose the rest of your drink!”

“Can’t have that!” whooped a frat brother in the background. Alex turned and shot him a glare.

“When are the other girls gonna get here?” Chel’s voice was slurred, mumbling. “Is Lou still coming?”

A chorus of giggles sounded from the small handful of girls in the background. I recognized Beth/Stacy as one of the onlookers. Alex looked back at the crowd and swallowed. He smiled wanly at Chel.

“Yeah, Chel, she’s on her way. Listen - how about we play a game while we wait for her?”

My stomach felt like stone, bile clawing up the back of my throat. Distantly, I could still hear the rampage continuing in the house around me. Wails of pain and fear, shrieks of rage and triumph, and under it all, a thick, fleshy ripping sound. 

“A game?” Chel looked at Alex with unfocused eyes, brow furrowed. Something was seriously wrong. Chel never got that drunk.

“Yeah, it’ll be fun!” The men were circling up around Chel on the TV. The hair on my arms and neck stood up. Somebody in the real world was pounding on the door to the room, begging for help, but they sounded distorted and far away, like my head was in a fishbowl. 

“I don’t know, Alex, I don’t feel so good.” Chel swayed on her feet. Alex was practically holding her upright. 

“It’s OK, Chel, just one quick game and then we’re done, OK?” 

Alex was smoothing Chel’s hair away from her face, almost tenderly. The ugly, sinister anticipation in my gut was building. Chel and Alex always had a bit of a thing, but this didn’t seem like their usual flirting; it was a mockery of the sweet way Alex usually treated Chel. His eyes were filled with an odd mix of determination and regret, lust and anxiety.

The Chel on the TV was too far gone to have any of those same misgivings. Chel was always too trusting of people, quick to see the good in everyone. She smiled broadly and dropped her head onto Alex’s shoulder, wrapping her arms around him in a loose hug. Alex’s frat brothers were circling like sharks. I wrapped my arms around my own waist and fell to my knees, tears streaming down my face.

“Spin the Chel!” somebody yelled. Chel looked up, confused, and Alex grimaced and spun her quickly in a circle. She stumbled into the arms of another fraternity brother. She tried to push at him, but her movements were slow and weak. The guy forcibly kissed her, and then shoved her back toward Alex, who did the same. This continued, Chel tossed about like a ragdoll, sobbing my name in fear and confusion. She looked so lost, so young. I quit watching as soon as more hands started grabbing at her, pulling at her clothes. It wasn’t hard to guess what happened next.

I covered my ears and hunched in on myself on the floor, screaming, begging for it all to stop. 

I don’t know how long I stayed there. I didn’t even notice that everything had gone quiet until I heard the click of the bedroom door opening behind me. It was loud as a gunshot in the sudden silence. I stood up slowly and moved toward the door in a daze.

I stepped forward and barely registered the sick squelch of the rug under my feet. Red soaked the floor and the bottom 18 inches of the wallpaper, splattered in wide strokes on the upper walls and ceiling. A pile of gore that had once been a person slumped at the top of the stairs. A river of blood ran down the center of the staircase, thick and dark, flowing like a grisly red carpet to the open front door.

I stepped around mangled limbs and stringy viscera as I made my way carefully down the stairs. My mind was completely numb to the carnage; the sound of Chel’s helpless tears still filled my ears. Two steps from the front door, a faint voice gurgled to my left.

“Lou…”

Part of me wanted to ignore him. To just walk back out into the night, down County Road 5, back to my tiny, uncomfortable bed in my shitty dorm room, where I would fall asleep and this would all have been a nightmare. 

“Please, Lou.”

Movements rigid, I forced myself to turn toward the living room. My breath hitched in spite of my detachment.

There, on the floor in the middle of a sea of shredded bodies, was what was left of Alex. His blond hair was tinged pink with blood. One of his eyes dangled loosely from its socket; both legs were missing below the knees. He dragged himself toward me with his right arm, nails cracking against the hardwood floor. His left arm, flesh ripped down to bone and sinew, reached out for me, pleading.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t. This was Alex - my best friend since kindergarten, Chel’s prom date, my first and last kiss with a man. This was Alex. The man who threw my sister to the wolves. Who raped her. 

The reason Chel was dead. 

“Did Chel say please, Alex? 

Alex choked on a bloody sob. I could see the guilt and shame awash in his one good eye.

“It wasn’t s’posed...go that far.” He coughed; blood spewed in a chunky froth across the hardwood. “Please, Lou, ‘m sorry.”

Groaning in agony, Alex inched closer to me. I remained still, body frozen with indecision.

“Shall we spare him?”

Ice trickled down my spine. The voice belonged to blue-eyes, there was no doubt, but it was different; a sonorous, echoing whisper, sighing on the wind like it came from everywhere at once.

A long-fingered hand settled on my shoulder. In the corner of my vision, I saw shiny curved, black talons resting near my collarbone. Just around the corners of the living room entryway, beyond my line of sight, I could make out the shadows of huge wings. Feathers rustled, claws tapped and clicked on the hardwood floor, impatient. Alex looked toward the noise, face twisted in fright. Blue-eyes squeezed my shoulder gently.

“I’m sorry, child. You weren’t supposed to be here. But we wanted you to understand.”

Alex looked at me again, pleading. He opened his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it.

“He’s all yours.”

As whatever monsters lurked in the shadows began to advance, the hand on my shoulder turned me away and steered me toward the door. Smooth, black feathers filled my peripheral vision, a large wing curled around my frame to block the sights and muffle the sounds of my former best friend’s demise. I stepped into the cool night air and closed my eyes. Lips brushed tenderly across my temple. 

“Be at peace, dear one.”

Everything went black.

I woke up late last Sunday morning, back in the dorms, tucked safely into my bed. For a couple of hours, I almost convinced myself I had dreamed the whole thing. Every trace of the House Omega party has been scrubbed from existence - all of my text messages with Alex about it were gone, none of the sleek, black invitations remained. I thought briefly, hopefully, that maybe it had all just been a grief-induced nightmare.

Until the news broke that Alex’s entire fraternity and a handful of Chel’s sorority sisters had disappeared into the ether overnight.

The police have no leads. I know they won’t find any. I drove back out to County Road 5 a few days ago, after half a week of fielding concerned phone calls from my mom. There’s nothing there; just an empty field with an abandoned, decrepit farmhouse rotting in the prairie sun.

Alex’s mom has been calling me, too. To see if I’ve heard from him, if I have any clue what happened. I haven’t told her the truth. I’ve decided that I won’t. Sometimes lies are kinder. She doesn’t need to know what kind of monster her son was, what kind of monster he was killed by.

I spent most of the day today at the cemetery. I sat cross-legged in front of Chel’s headstone, tracing the letters of her name and thinking of everything I should have seen earlier, everything I missed. A shadow fell over me, breaking my reverie. 

“Mind if I join you?”

I squinted up into the afternoon sun. It was Anna. With everything else that had been going on, I had almost forgotten that she had even been there that night. I guess I had subconsciously catalogued her as one of missing. Apparently, officially speaking, she was never at the party either.

She helped fill in some of the gaps.

“Chel came to me, right after it happened,” Anna said, voice tight. She sat down beside me in the grass, close enough our thighs were touching. “I was furious, ready to call campus police, but she begged me not to. The boys, and some of our so-called sisters, had taken video of the whole thing, she said, and threatened to expose her if she got ‘too sensitive’ about it. I promised her I wouldn’t call. I wish every night that I had anyway.

I had decided I would connect her with campus resources instead, you know? Support groups for survivors, counselors, that kind of thing. I convinced myself it was good enough. But before I could make it happen she..” Anna choked on the words. She cleared her throat and breathed out harshly through her nose. “Well, I was too late. I would apologize to you, but an apology isn’t good enough.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Anna. You tried to help her.” I squeezed her hand. She squeezed mine back.

“Still, I felt like I had to do something.” Anna stared at Chel’s headstone, eyes hard. “People like the men and women who hurt your sister, they think they’re invincible. Untouchable. And they’re not entirely wrong these days. With enough money, you can get away with anything, right?” She laughed, dry and humorless. “So I knew I had to reach out to a higher authority.”

“What did you do?”

Anna smiled grimly. “My family worships the old gods.” I shivered at that, a chill dancing across my skin. “I called upon a long-forgotten sisterhood, ancient and hungry. If I could deliver them the guilty parties, they promised they could deliver justice.” Her expression softened as she finally looked at me. “You were never supposed to be there, though. Oh, honey, I am so, so sorry."

I didn’t tell her it was okay, because it really isn't. But I appreciated her apology nonetheless. I nodded and squeezed her hand again, blinking back tears.

“So...what now?”

“The deed is done.” Anna stood up and dusted the grass off of the back of her leggings. “They’ll have moved on.” Anna looked at me, long and hard, and bit her lip. She nodded to herself, and reached into her purse. “They did ask me to make one last delivery, though.”

Anna pulled out a very familiar piece of black cardstock, embossed with gilded lettering. She handed it to me. I took it with a trembling hand.

“There’s no pressure, and no expiration date,” Anna said. She started to go, but turned back one last time with a sad, sweet smile. “I really am sorry, Lou. For everything. Chel was the best of us.”

I waited until her figure faded into the distance to look down at the paper in my hands. It was a new invitation, to me, this time:
 
Louise Teller
True of heart and strong of will,
The Sisters of House Omega invite you into our fold.
A black candle to summon us; a white candle to turn us away.
We will heed your call.

I thought of Chel, crying and confused, stumbling in a dark basement. I thought of Chel, the last time I’d seen her in life, head thrown back and laughing. I thought of Chel, cold and still in the ground beneath me. I crumpled the invitation in my fist.

It’s quiet tonight; not even a breeze rustles the dying leaves. And yet, a soft wind is disturbing the flame of the black candle I’ve placed in front of my open window. A low, sweet voice floats on the breeze, speaking an old language, and feathers flutter in the dark just past my line of vision.

I was never the type to join a sorority. But I think there might be something to this whole sisterhood thing after all.
]]><![CDATA[Annabelle vs. the Monster Under the Bed]]>Sun, 08 Sep 2019 22:49:58 GMThttps://www.how-queer.com/fiction/annabelle-vs-the-monster-under-the-bed“OK, Belly, it’s time for bed.”

Mommy closed the book she’d been reading and stood up, plopping Annabelle on her feet. Annabelle really wanted to hear the rest of the story, but she yawned before she could complain. Maybe Mommy was right. Annabelle started to skip down the hall to Mommy’s room before she remembered.

“Big girls sleep in their own beds, Annabelle,” Mommy had said. “Don’t worry about monsters. I’ll check under the bed and keep you safe.”
​
Annabelle had pinkie-promised Mommy that she would sleep in her own bed tonight, and everybody knows you can’t break a pinkie promise. Annabelle had only made that promise after Mommy said she would let her wear her Batgirl costume to bed instead of her jammies. Batgirl was brave, and Annabelle wasn’t afraid of anything when she was Batgirl.

At the end of the hall, Annabelle took a deep breath and turned into her own room instead of Mommy’s. She glared at her pretty, white bed with its fluffy, pink comforter.

“I am a big girl,” she grumbled.

“Yes, you are.” Mommy came into the room behind her. She smiled and gave Annabelle a hug. That always made her feel better. “I’m so proud of you.”

Annabelle smiled. She liked making her Mommy proud. She took off her hearing aids, or “ear buddies,” as she and Mommy called them, and brushed her hair. Mommy tucked her in, and they said their nighttime prayers. Then it was time for Mommy to check under the bed.

Annabelle’s tummy gurgled, and she shivered. She snuggled deep under her covers and refused to be scared. Even if there was a monster under the bed, her Mommy could take him.

“No monsters under there!” Mommy announced. Annabelle was happy at first, but then she remembered something. Benjamin at school had said that grown-ups can’t see monsters. She pouted, and Mommy laughed.

“I promise, Belly, no monster is going to get you.” She kissed Annabelle on the forehead and tucked the covers more tightly around her. “Love you, Princess.”

“Love you too, Mommy.”

Mommy turned out the light and shut the door, leaving Annabelle alone for the night. The room looked different in the pink glow of her nightlight. Shadows seemed to dance on the wall, the floor, and the ceiling. Annabelle felt her tummy gurgle again. She squeezed her eyes shut tight. 

“I’m a big girl. I’m not afraid,” she whispered to herself. She pulled her blanket over her head.

Then she heard it.

There was a soft rustling noise under the bed. She tried to ignore it. Mommy said that sometimes when we’re scared, our imagination tricks us. Annabelle didn’t think that was very nice of her imagination. She tried to force herself to fall asleep, humming “Let It Go” over and over in her blanket cocoon. It was no use. The rustling kept getting louder.

Suddenly, Annabelle was angry. This was her room. Who did this monster think he was? She was a big girl. More than that, right now, she was Batgirl.

Annabelle kicked off her covers and hopped onto the floor. She crouched down and glared into the shadows under her bed, hands bunched into angry fists.

“Hey, turd-butt!” she hissed, not wanting to wake Mommy. “This is my room. I’m not some baby you can scare off. I’m FIVE!” She thrust her palm forward, fingers spread wide. “You have to leave, right now. I’m not afraid of you!”

Big, orange eyes blinked open in the dark, and Annabelle jumped back. She didn’t scream, though. She was startled but not scared, because the eyes weren’t actually scary. They...they looked like a cartoon!

“You’re not?” A small voice whispered.

At least, that’s what Annabelle thought it said. It was hard to tell in the dark, when she couldn’t see its mouth move. She told the monster to wait there and ran to the dresser. She popped her purple, sparkly ear buddies into her ears and turned them on.

“What?” She asked.

“You’re not afraid of me?”

“Oh! Nope!” Annabelle popped the ‘p.’ “I’m a superhero. So you better go scare some other kid.”

“But I don’t want to scare anybody,” the monster grumbled.

Annabelle sighed, exasperated. “Look, can you just come out here? I’m having a hard time hearing you in the dark.”

There was a shuffling noise. A bright green hand flopped out from under the bed and then another. They almost looked like paws, Annabelle thought. They were fuzzy, with four stubby fingers tipped with tiny claws. She saw its arms next. They were long and yellow, skinny like noodles. He pulled himself out from under her bed.

The monster stood in front of Annabelle, orange eyes blinking owlishly in the pink light. He was shorter than she was, with a fuzzy red body shaped like a big potato. His arms reached all the way down to the floor, where his green hands rested next to his bright green feet. Annabelle couldn’t even see the monster’s legs through his fur, he was so short.

She burst out laughing.

The monster frowned. He turned to go back under the bed. 

“Well, if you’re just going to make fun of me…”

Annabelle felt bad and stopped laughing. She didn’t mean to hurt his feelings. She grabbed his soft, green paw to stop him.

“No, don’t go, I’m sorry!” she cried. “I didn’t mean to laugh. Benjamin just said monsters were big and scary, and that they ate little girls because they have cooties. But you’re not scary, you’re cute!”

Annabelle thought the monster blushed under his fur. He even seemed to smile a little.

“Who’s Benjamin?” he asked.

Annabelle shrugged. “A boy at school.”

“Well, Benjamin sounds stupid.”

Annabelle giggled and clapped her hands over her mouth. She wasn’t allowed to call people ‘stupid,’ but maybe the monster’s Mommy said that was okay. 

“What’s your name?” she asked. 

The monster looked confused. “I don’t think I have one of those. Do you?”

“Of course! I’m Annabelle,” she said. She had never heard of somebody not having a name.“If you don’t have a name, what do your parents and your friends call you?”

“Oh, I don’t have any of those either,” the monster said. 

That made Annabelle sad. She wanted to give the monster a hug, but she knew it wasn’t polite to hug people without asking. She guessed the same was true of monsters. Then, she had another idea.

“I can be your friend, if you want,” she said. 

The monster perked up at that. “Really?”

Annabelle laughed. “Of course! We can play games and tell each other stories.”

The monster grinned. He had two big teeth, one on the top and one on the bottom. “That sounds like fun!”

“You’ll need a name,” Annabelle said. Annabelle loved naming things. She had named her puppy, Leo, and all of her stuffed animals had their own names too. She looked at the monster for a few seconds, thinking hard. “I think you look like a Roger!”

Annabelle did a motion with her hand when she said it, her first and second fingers crossed. The monster looked confused. 

“What is that?” He made the same motion with his paw.

“It’s your name!” Annabelle did it again. “Roger, in sign. Sometimes it’s hard to hear people talk, so I use my hands to talk too. Like this: Your name is Roger!”

The monster watched her hands move with wide eyes. “That’s so neat!” he said. “Is there a sign for Annabelle?”

“Yeah, I’ll teach you!”

She showed the monster how to sign her name. He grinned his two-toothed smile.

“You’ll have to teach me how to say more things in sign!”

Annabelle smiled. “Of course, Roger!” She suddenly realized she hadn’t asked the monster if she could call him that. “Is that OK? Do you like that name?”

“Oh!” the monster exclaimed. He’d been so interested in learning the signs that he had forgotten. “Yes, it’s a very good name. Roger. I can be Roger.”

“Awesome.” Annabelle said, emphatically. “I’m glad that you’re not a scary monster, Roger.”

Roger laughed, a low, pleasant, rumbly sound. “Me too!”

She and Roger stayed awake for a little while longer. They sat on the floor and played with Annabelle’s stuffed animals. She showed Roger her ear buddies, and she taught him how to sign more words. She told him all about kindergarten, and her Mommy, and her puppy, Leo. Before long, her eyes started getting heavy, and she leaned more and more to the side. She almost toppled over, but Roger caught her with a noodly arm.

“I think you should go back to bed, Annabelle.”

Annabelle pouted, but she knew he was right. She couldn’t stop yawning, and she had to get up early for school tomorrow. 

“Will you come back tomorrow night?” she asked, hopefully.

“Of course! Now that I have a friend!” Roger said. He helped her stand up and tucked her back into bed.

“That’s good,” Annabelle sighed. Her eyes were already closed. “I’m glad I met you, Roger.”

“Me too, Annabelle,” he said. “Sleep tight!” He patted her hand with a big, fuzzy paw. 

Annabelle smiled, and Roger slid back under the bed, to wherever monsters go to sleep. Annabelle couldn’t wait to tell Benjamin that he was wrong at school tomorrow. And Mommy would be proud of her for making a new friend! No longer scared of monsters or the dark, she drifted off to sleep to dream about new friends and big, orange eyes.
]]><![CDATA[This year's hottest gift: Coulrophobia]]>Mon, 12 Aug 2019 07:00:00 GMThttps://www.how-queer.com/fiction/this-years-hottest-gift-coulrophobiaI would like to preface all of this by saying that nothing that's happened is my fault. I know that makes it seem like it definitely, absolutely is my fault. But I promise it's not. 

It’s fucking Craig's fault.
​
Some context: My birthday is in June. I fucking hate my birthday. It's hot and humid outside, and as a kid all of my friends were out of town, so I never got to have a real party. I’ve hated it even more since I started working at my current office 5 years ago.

Let me introduce you to Craig - slightly faded frat boy looks, garbage personality. You know the kind of guy I mean: lots of money, enough snake-like charm to climb the corporate ladder without actually being good at his job. Craig was, unfortunately, a senior associate on my team.

Fun fact about Craig: he loved any excuse to give his coworkers gifts, not because of any overwhelming sense of generosity, but because he was an asshole. Each birthday, every Christmas, Craig painstakingly selected the most heinous, inane, and occasionally flat-out terrifying object he could find to terrorize one of us. Last year he got our sweet coworker, Erin, in Secret Santa, and he gave her a fake cockroach, the kind that’s remote-controlled and skitters across the floor and looks like the real thing. And by "gave,” I mean he skittered it right over Erin’s feet during the middle of lunch, just as she was taking a big bite of her homemade egg salad sandwich. The bastard cackled while the rest of us tried to help her pick bits of boiled egg out of her clothes, hair, and keyboard.

I’ve been careful not to reveal my birthday to anybody at work, and I always slithered my way out of having to participate in Secret Santa. Maybe that made me the office curmudgeon, but I already hate my birthday enough, and I really was not in the market for a glow-in-the-dark pile of fake snot or a prank stapler that's secretly a hand buzzer or any of that bullshit.

This year, though, I made a mistake; I made a friend at work. Don't get me wrong, I've always gotten along well enough with my coworkers, but I’ve always preferred to maintain a polite distance. Then Ariana started in May. 

Ariana was fucking gorgeous. I would have never said that to her face, especially not in our place of business, because I’m not a fucking creep. But it was true. She had long, black hair, an impeccable sense of style, and wide brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when she smiled. That smile... even a straight woman would be hard-pressed to resist.

I was smitten immediately, is what I'm trying to say. And when she came in on the first Friday in June wearing a rainbow flag pin and a bi-pride t-shirt, I thought I might actually stand a chance, if I could get over 15 years of crippling introversion to make the first move. Fortunately, in the end, she asked me out for coffee, 2 days before my birthday. I think I said yes very ineloquently, a lot of stammering and blushing involved, but she still wanted to go out with me anyway.

It was a great date. We talked about everything: the political climate, how it feels being queer in Missouri, the shittiest movies we’d seen lately. Eventually, the coffee shop kicked us out, and she kissed me goodnight at my car. We made tentative plans to meet up on my birthday for a second date.

I didn't realize my mistake until it was too late. 

I floated into work on my birthday without a care in the world. When I got to our department, I caught Ariana's eye and could feel the stupid grin splitting my face; it took me a second to register the frown on hers. Before I could ask her what was wrong, I was interrupted by the last voice I wanted to hear first thing in the morning.

"Well well well, if it isn't the birthday girl!"

Fuck. 

Craig knew, and there was only one way he knew. Ariana looked dismayed, mouthing an apologetic “I’m sorry.” That made me feel like shit. It's not like it was her fault; I didn't think to warn her. I tried to give her a winning smile, pulled up my big girl pants, and turned to face the music. 

As expected, there stood Craig in all of his douchebag glory, holding a gift-wrapped box that was distressingly large, at least 3 feet tall and 2 feet wide. 

"Craig, you really shouldn't have." 

"Ah, c'mon, Erica, you know I owe you 5 years worth of gifts. I had to get you something really special to finally mark the occasion!"

I glared at him balefully, but it did nothing to quell his shit-eating grin. I gave the package a once-over. I really wasn’t looking forward to this.

"Hop to it, we haven't got all day!" 

Craig shoved the package toward me, slapping the top of the box like he was a used car salesman. I sighed and suppressed an eye roll. I was being ridiculous. It wasn’t the end of the world; I was just being a sore loser.

“Alright, alright, you finally got me. Good for you. Hand it over.” 

I pulled the package toward me with as gracious of a smile as I could muster. The box was deceptively light for its size. 

My coworkers gathered around, morbidly curious. I couldn't blame them. I'd been one of the gawkers each time they were in my shoes. I’d accept whatever Craig dished out as gracefully as possible. Worst case scenario, I was going to have some ugly-ass piece of shit on my desk for the rest of the day, and then I could toss it without looking like an asshole. I gave Ariana another reassuring smile and tore into the wrapping paper and the cardboard box underneath, quick, like ripping off a band-aid. 

Which is how I found myself face to face with, truly, the most hideous clown I have ever seen in my entire life. Erin shrieked, Ariana let out a low whistle, and a few of my coworkers even jumped back, startled.

I’ve never been particularly afraid of clowns, but even I could understand the reaction. I gingerly picked the thing up by its lumpy body, worn, scratchy canvas stretched over cheap cotton stuffing. It used to be striped red and white, but the colors were long faded, bleached out by the sun and time. Each limb ended in a dirty, white-lace ruffle at the cuff, rough-hewn wooden hands and feet dangling uselessly from the wrists and ankles. 

The face, though; that was really the pièce de résistance.

Whereas the hands and feet looked like crude afterthoughts, the clown’s creator went to painstaking detail carving out the facial features in sharp relief, painted each element with great care. The mouth was a wide, cruel grin, thick red lips stretched obscenely from ear to ear, fangs bared and painted a dirty yellow, each one coming to a vicious point. Exaggerated brows arched wickedly over sunken eyes; the whites were yellowed, one iris painted red with a pinprick pupil, the other a black and blue spiral. The head was topped off by a tangled mop of orange yarn and a pointy, crumpled red felt hat. 

There was also, of course, the signature red, bulbous nose. It looked out of place in the midst of that monstrous face. It was a shiny wooden ball, cartoonishly large, protruding so starkly that it almost looked like a doorknob. 

I finally met Craig’s eye. He was practically vibrating with glee.

“Gee, thanks, it’s beautiful.” I started to set it down on my desk.

“Oh, no no no, you haven’t even got to the best part!” Craig shoved the ugly thing back into my arms and clapped a hand on my shoulder. “You have to twist its nose!”

I wanted to ask him where he’d found it because I was a little concerned that handling it any further might give me tetanus. But I’d resolved to be a good sport about this, so I grabbed the wooden nose and started turning it counterclockwise. I could hear rusty gears winding with each twist. When the tension reached its peak, I let go. 

Talk about immediate regret. It turned out the grotesque head doubled as a wind-up music box. Our department was suddenly filled with warbly, discordant carnival music, grinding out at a shrill, manic tempo.

“Oh dear God.” Ariana was standing on my other side, looking over my shoulder, eyes wide.

Craig finally released all of the pent-up laughter he’d been reserving since I opened the box. I stumbled forward as he clapped me on the back, hard, tears in his eyes.

“Isn’t it just the most horrible thing you’ve ever seen?”

“You really outdid yourself, buddy.”

“The lady who owned the antique store said it was haunted, practically gave it away.”

Ariana shoved his arm off of me. “It’s haunted and you brought it here?!” 

“Relax, Ariana,” I gave her a tiny, completely work-appropriate side-hug. “I’m sure she was just having a hard time selling it. Makes for a good story, at least.”

“Oh, no no no. She said her son had it for a while, but his kids kept having horrible nightmares, and the music kept playing all on its own. She said it moves around the shop on its own at night, but that they’re all too afraid to put it back in its place. Nobody wants to touch it, it radiates such evil.” He wiggled his fingers in my face. “Grade-A haunted artifact right there, Erica. Only the best for you.”

“Sure, whatever you say. Well done.” I turned away from him and plopped the ugly doll onto my desk. “Feel free to come point and laugh all day, while you can. It’ll be gone tonight.”

Craig winked at me and actually clapped his hands like an excited toddler as he skipped back to his own desk. I glared one last time at the clown before turning to Ariana. “So, what do you want to do tonight?”

Ariana didn’t respond. She kept staring at the damn clown, brows drawn together and lips pursed. 

“I really don’t like that thing, Erica. There’s something wrong with it; maybe Craig isn’t lying. Please don’t just throw it out?”

“You don’t seriously expect me to keep it?” She didn’t respond. “Ariana, it’s fine. It’ll be gone by morning, and we can forget all about it until Craig gets me something equally awful next year.” 

"I just don't think you should take it so lightly. What if it's cursed or something?"

"What, you think I should call an exorcist?" I laughed. She flinched and looked down at the floor. "I didn't realize you were so superstitious."

I was aiming for light teasing, but she was not amused. She glared at the clown.

"Whatever. It just looks so…"

She was really unnerved. I followed her gaze to that godawful face. “If it really bothers you, I can get rid of it now? I can withstand Craig being a dick about it.”

She looked up at me then, brow smoothing out with clear effort. She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“No, you’re right, I’m being silly. I just really hate clowns.”

“I can understand why.” Which was partially true. If all clowns looked like this bastard, I’d be terrified too. We kept staring at it a moment longer. I decided to break the tension. “So...tonight?”

Ariana’s face finally brightened, mouth relaxing into a true smile. “Yes, absolutely. I have a late meeting with the offshore team, so I won’t be done until about 9, but I thought we could meet for a drink? Bailey’s Place, 9:30?”

Normally I’m in bed by 10:00, but I wasn’t about to say no to the offer. Plans set, I threw myself into the workday and tried not to look at the clock too often. Or the clown. Erin and I named him Gregory at some point that afternoon, slap-happy and avoiding work.

I clocked out at 6 and, as promised, took Gregory out back for an unceremonious garbage funeral.

“Good riddance,” I muttered, letting the dumpster lid clang shut on that ugly mug with resounding finality. 

Three and a half hours should have been plenty of time to get ready, but I still found myself rushing to get out the door at 9:20. I texted Ariana that I was running late, but she didn’t reply. I rolled up at about 9:40 and didn't see her car outside. The place was pretty dead, being a weeknight, so there wasn’t much of a crowd to scan when I got inside. Ariana wasn’t there yet. 

I grabbed us a corner table and started nursing a gin and tonic. I checked my phone: still no messages, 9:52. Anxiety fluttered in my ribcage. She’d seemed excited this morning. I hadn’t done anything to put her off the rest of the day, right? She didn’t seem the type to just blow somebody off. Besides, it had been her idea to go out, both times. I texted her a few times, but still no response.

By 10:45, three drinks deep and still alone, I accepted the fact I’d been stood up. I called an Uber and texted Ariana that I was sorry for whatever I’d done and that I hoped we could talk about it the next day. I flopped face down onto my bed when I got home, fully intending to wallow in self-pity for a bit, but promptly passed the fuck out.

I woke up at 6 the next morning to a mouth like cotton and a pounding headache behind my eyes, but no new texts from Ariana. Did I piss her off with the whole thing with Gregory? I hadn’t meant to make fun of her; I didn’t realize how serious she was, I guess. I resolved to apologize as soon as I got into the office that morning. 

The parking lot was full of flashing lights when I got there. A line of cop cars blocked half the spaces, and a big black van was pulling in behind me, marked CORONER. An officer was stretching crime scene tape across the drive leading behind the building.

My coworkers were gathered in the front lawn. Erin was crying. Even Craig looked shaken. My heart dropped to my knees, dread settling in the back of my throat. 

I knew before I asked that it wasn’t good news. I still wasn’t prepared for the reality. The cleaning staff always gets to the office super early; it’s easier to clean up the previous day’s mess without all of us in the way. It was one of them who found her, when they went to take out the trash: Ariana, dead among the garbage, body covered in bruises and deep scratches, face frozen in terror.

I walked up to the office in a daze. They were going to send everybody home for the day, after the police got a chance to question each of us. We were asked to wait in our cubes in the meantime. I slumped in my chair and stared at the floor, whispered conversations buzzing around me, nothing but unintelligible noise. Tears wouldn’t come, not yet. The grief was still settling in, a dense fog blanketing everything, suffocating and thick.

I looked up at Ariana’s cube, across from mine, wildly hoping for a moment that it was all a bad dream. Maybe she’d be sitting there with that smile on her face.

Instead, sitting in her desk chair, facing me with that evil, manic grin, was fucking Gregory. 

Rage pierced through the haze and drove me to my feet. I stormed across the aisle and yanked the clown out of Ariana’s chair. 

“Who the fuck put this here?” 

Everybody went quiet; my pulse was thundering in my ears. Erin’s watery eyes met mine, full of sympathy. Craig wouldn’t look at me at all.

“Fuck you, Craig. What the fuck is wrong with you, huh?” He startled, eyes wide and mouth open in dumb shock. “Nobody likes your goddamn practical jokes. Nobody likes working with you, you annoying fuck. This is just sick.”

“Erica-” Erin was reaching out to me, placating; Craig looked pained. “I don’t think Craig would-”

“Whatever.” I glared at all of them. Anger was easy; I could do anger, even if it didn't make any sense to blame Craig. How would he have gotten through the police line to the dumpster? But I wasn't thinking clearly. “I’m getting this fucking thing out of here, and if I see it again, I’m reporting your bullshit to HR, Craig.”

I stormed out of the office, not even stopping when the detectives shouted after me. They could get in touch later, not that I would be any help. I was moping in a bar, shooting off passive aggressive texts, while Ariana was being murdered less than three miles away.

I drove without a specific destination in mind. Eventually, my gas gauge dinged at me, breaking me out of my stupor. It was dark out; I had been driving all day. I looked around and didn’t recognize where I was, stopped in the middle of a dimly lit road with dense woods on either side. 

I pulled over to the shoulder to check my GPS, and I spotted a creek running down below. It was a 12-foot drop past the guardrail, shallow water trickling in a gentle stream. I glanced over at Gregory in the passenger seat, wooden, menacing grin shining in the light of a flickering streetlamp. 

I don’t remember making the decision, but the next thing I knew, I was tossing the stupid doll over the guardrail to the creekbed below. There was hardly any water, but Gregory made a satisfying squelch as he landed in the mud and rotten leaves. It had begun to rain, and I stood there a long time watching as more mud and leaves slid over his little canvas body, blanketing him in muck. I was drenched to the bone by the time I climbed back in my car. It took me two hours to find my way home.

The office was closed for three days. I spent most of them asleep, or at least trying to sleep. Craig and Erin both called and texted several times. Erin to see how I was, which I couldn’t bring myself to respond to; Craig to insist that he had nothing to do with the clown at Ariana’s desk. As if that was what mattered, after everything. I blocked his number.

When work did resume, everything was different. Erin’s birthday came and went without a gift from Craig. Nobody really talked to each other anymore; there was no more joking around, no long lunch breaks or office shenanigans. We all buckled down and did our work in silence. It didn’t help that there was no closure. The detectives had no leads in Ariana’s case. The security cameras didn’t catch anything the night of her murder, only that it didn’t look like she or anybody else left the building after her meeting, which didn’t make any sense. How did she get to the dumpster?

Everything ran that way for a while, broken but fine, until two weeks ago. Craig had a meeting with the offshore team, the first late meeting since Ariana’s, actually.

He didn’t show up to work the next day. 

Something else showed up in his place. Erin found him, covered in leaves and mud, propped up on Craig’s desk. Gregory, back from the dead. She apparently fainted when she saw him. I was inclined to do the same when I got there shortly after. It felt like those painted eyes were staring right at me, into me. Something was clearly very, very wrong.

I was questioned about Craig’s disappearance, of course. It makes sense, with the way I screamed at him in the office. Fortunately, I had an alibi. It helped my case when they found Craig’s body a week later, after an anonymous tip to check a remote creekbed on the outskirts of town. He had been beaten to a pulp, just like Ariana. He was easily twice my size; there’s no way I could have done it, so the police let me be.

Not that my coworkers cared about that logic. They were still suspicious. Most of them would barely look at me, and I’ve heard them whispering behind my back. My boss asked me if I would be willing to work from home for the foreseeable future. She can’t outright fire me, not yet, but I can tell she wants to. I can’t really blame any of them. I was dating Ariana, and it was no secret that I hated Craig. I make the most sense as the prime suspect.

It’s not like I can tell anybody what I think is actually happening. Who would believe me? I barely believe it myself. I’ve never been superstitious, never believed in ghosts or monsters, but I remember the fear in Ariana’s eyes when she first saw Gregory. Her plea not to throw him out still haunts me every night. And there’s the fact that nobody knew where I dumped him the second time. How did he end up back in the office? How in the hell did Craig end up in that creek?

I decided I wanted answers, no matter the cost. So I came back to the office tonight. I have my own evening meeting with the offshore team. My boss offered to cancel it, given its recent track record, but I insisted. I was holding out hope that maybe there was still a rational explanation, a serial killer targeting our team, stalking us, using the doll as a calling card. Not pleasant, but better than the alternative. I’d be ready for him; I’d call the police, he’d be caught, and we could put this all to bed. 

I think I knew, deep down, that nothing rational is going on at all. Even as I’ve spent the last week writing all this out, I could feel the heavy, oppressive presence of something unnatural hanging over me, something other. Something that thrives off of fear.

And I am afraid. But it’s too late, now.

The call is about to end, I think; I haven’t really been listening, too busy getting this all out. Nobody on the call would believe me anyway, but I know you all will.

You’ll believe me when I tell you that, 30 minutes ago, even if they can’t hear it on the phone, an off-key carnival tune started drifting through the building. It started distant, echoing up the elevator shaft and through the empty halls. Every so often it pauses, and I hear the harsh grind of rusty gears before it picks back up. Each time getting louder. Closer. The fluorescent lights outside the meeting room started flickering about 10 minutes ago.

They just blinked out completely.

There’s something outside the closed door, a few feet away, a lumpy shadow backlit by the moon. The meeting is winding down, everybody exchanging pleasantries and getting ready to say goodbye. I want to ask them to stay, to be here, even if it’s just on the phone, but my voice is caught in my throat. The shadow just twitched forward, closer still, the sound of unfinished wood scraping across cheap carpet.

The call is over now; I looked down when the speaker went silent. I don’t want to look up. Maybe if I focus on this screen, just keep typing, it’ll go away. Maybe it’s just my imagination, playing tricks on me, seeing what it wants to see. Maybe I’ve just gone crazy.

I looked up. The shadow is gone. The door is open. I didn’t hear it open.

When did it get so quiet?

Another scrape. Under the heavy oak table, this time. I don’t want to look. 

I’ve never been afraid of clowns.

The gears are grinding again; the music is back, echoing, deafening. I want to cover my ears, but I need somebody to know the truth. No matter the cost, I said, right?

Such a millennial, right, live-blogging my own death? 

God, it’s so fucking loud now. The floor is vibrating with it, shaking the table. Something cold and rough is grabbing my ankle, but it hasn’t done anything else yet. Maybe it wants you to know the truth too? 

I think it’s just waiting for the fear to reach a fever-pitch. I can feel it; it wants me to look, to pay attention. Step right up, folks - the greatest show on earth! 

Splinters are digging deep into my skin, like claws, something warm and thick trickling into my shoes. I think that it hurts, but it all feels far away. 

I’ve never been afraid of clowns. 

I wonder if they’ll find me in the evidence room at the police station tomorrow. I’d like to hear how they explain it. 

There’s laughter, now, deep, rumbling below the music.

Look, Erica. See.

Jesus, I hate my fucking birthday.

I’m going to look now. At least you all know the truth, whatever happens. 

Oh, and one more thing:

Fuck you, Craig.

]]>